Truth Is A Whisper
by MomentarySetback
Summary: She's been left with a thousand questions. He would give anything to remember the answers. Alternate Eric/Calleigh storyline for Season 8. Begins post-7x25.
1. Wreck of the Day

**Note: **I always wanted to see the Eric/Calleigh conflict from the end of Season 7 fully dealt with, and I wish they'd followed through with his injury and surgery the second time around, so... This idea has been begging me to write it since the beginning of Season 8.

* * *

Calleigh recognized the rhythmic beeping for exactly what it was – a lifeline, both for him and for her. The steady tone was reassurance that, despite the multitude of apparent injuries and hours of surgery, he was still alive.

Eric was still breathing. He was still here, despite her nerves almost convincing her otherwise. For a while in the Everglades, she'd dreaded moving on to the next search area for fear of the very purpose that brought them all here: finding him. Fear coursed through her because, in finding him, there was the possibility of finding only his body.

She'd tried to cling to hope like she knew he'd want her to, but between the blood in the car and the blood on Sharova there was a significant amount. His blood loss was extensive enough to disorient him, to make him stumble through the dangerous waters he knew so well. And then there was that stupid, melodramatic nagging fear that he would end up like all the other men in her life: gone. Simply gone. The universe would pay no homage to Eric being the most dependable person to come into her life thus far.

But he was alive. He was here, breathing on his own.

Calleigh treasured each rhythmic beep and dutifully observed every rise-and-fall of his chest with awe. There was still a possibility he wouldn't wake up, and even if he did the repercussions of the week's events would be unavoidable. This week had rocked their foundation, had questioned the trust in him she had so vehemently spoken of in the past.

Still, it wasn't enough to keep her from his side. Her trust seemed trivial compared to his life.

Exhaling heavily, Calleigh leaned forward in the chair, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Considering the distance they'd kept over the past week, she was afraid to touch him – afraid he wouldn't want her to. Half-truths and loaded accusations had been wedged between the perfect, trusting nature of their relationship until she wasn't sure what or whom she could trust anymore.

But one look at him reminded her that this was _Eric_, and that was enough for now. The Eric she knew would want her there, holding on to both his hand and hope.

After bringing her chair closer, where she wanted to be, she took a better look at his injuries and felt her resolve again threatening to break. The distinct sting of tears behind her eyes began to blur her vision, but she blinked them away to focus on the scene before her – Eric in bandages and hospital sheets, those beeps her only consolation.

With an unsteady hand, she reached for him, her fingers gliding over his forearm before her palm finally kissed his. His warmth amazed her. Despite his close brush with death, his hands were just as warm as they always had been. Whether skimming them over her heated skin in a moment of passion or simply holding her close, his hands had always been warm and comforting against her skin.

Today the warmth itself comforted her – it meant he was alive, that he was himself in some way. And on a day when he had betrayed her trust and almost got himself killed in the process, she needed that. She needed _this_ – his hand in hers, despite her many reservations, and the two of them here, together.

Now he just needed to wake up.

* * *

Clorinda wasn't sure which stole her breath away more – the sight of her son, her Eric, hooked up to machines again and covered in bandages, or the sight of the very familiar blonde at his side whose hand was wrapped around his tightly, whose lips were pressed against the back of his hand in a gesture that rang of far more than friendship. The latter was a strong competitor solely because it explained the past four months to her. The secret smiles, his persistent absences, and that added light in his eyes suddenly made sense. Clorinda knew there was a woman, a likely important woman; she just hadn't expected this. And she couldn't even be sure, but somehow she was.

Both needing a minute to collect herself and not wanting to interrupt the sanctity of the moment, she hesitated at the door. She watched Calleigh continue to clasp his hand in hers, watched as her free hand traced the slope of his neck, and knew without a doubt that he'd been in good hands. By the looks of it, Calleigh hadn't taken any time at all for herself. She was covered in dirt from the search, black pants crusted with murky Everglades water and mud splattered across her entire body. Clorinda had never seen her looking anything less than beautifully put together, but something told her that appearance greatly paled in comparison to what currently lay before Calleigh.

The sound of the door opening had her turning quickly, and when she saw his mother coming through the doorway she immediately drew her touch away. Laying his hand down beside him and shifting uncomfortably, she smoothed her hands over her black pants to collect herself. She hoped her undoubtedly glossy and red-rimmed eyes weren't too telling as she met Clorinda's own worried eyes – deep brown, like Eric's.

There were no words, no time for pleasantries.

"Thank you for calling me," Clorinda said, looking almost as afraid to touch him as Calleigh had been. "I got back in town as soon as I could."

Awkwardly giving up the only seat at his bedside vigil, Calleigh moved away, running a nervous hand through her long hair as she searched for the strength to speak. Clorinda uncomfortably took the seat, feeling as though she'd stolen so much more.

"He, um, got out of surgery a few hours ago." She pressed her lips together, tears challenging her strong will. Trying to remain all business, she folded her arms over her chest and shifted her gaze to the window, away from him. "It was long, but they said it went well… With so much damage, though, they won't know how he is until he wakes up. And there's always a chance that…" She had to stop then, looking at his mother and steeling herself. She couldn't do it, couldn't even think it let alone tell his mother there was a chance that the fragment and the shifting and all the surgeries had just done too much damage, that he'd been under so long he might stay that way.

"…he won't?" Clorinda finished for her, and Calleigh was amazed by her strength.

"There's a chance," she repeated softly.

"They said that last time." Clorinda laid a sure hand over her son's chest and Calleigh caught sight of rosary beads. "He'll wake up."

Calleigh hoped because she had to, because there was nothing else, but she didn't have that kind of faith… She'd seen too many bad things happen to the best people to be that steadfast. Still, some part of her not only believed, but also knew that a world without Eric just couldn't exist.

"Thank you for staying with him." Clorinda smiled sadly as her hand wrapped around her son's, so much differently than the way Calleigh's fingers had woven intimately with his.

Calleigh smiled politely as though it had been some co-workerly duty or friendly gesture, but her eyes told otherwise. She was watching him as though her life depended on it, as though if she stopped measuring the steady beat of his heart it would cease completely and take hers with it. Toying with the pendant hooked around her neck by a silver chain, she stood frozen at the foot of his bed and Clorinda had never been more certain of anything.

"He would want you here," Clorinda said in an invitation. "You should go get some rest, but don't feel like you have to go… Stay if you need to."

She did. God, she did, but there was this nagging part of her that wondered just what exactly had put him in this hospital bed. Never before had she questioned her trust in him, but today made her waver.

And then her eyes trailed over his adorably scruffy jaw, his patient, loving hands that she wanted to hold, and she knew there was nowhere else to be. With tearful, questioning eyes, she looked over at Clorinda and smiled sadly. She knew.

"I don't know," Calleigh admitted, taking a slow step back from the bed. She was the girlfriend no one knew about – her choice – and after the past week or two she felt utterly uncomfortable with a place at his bedside, surrounded by family members who believed and trusted in him, who had absolutely no idea what he'd been into these past few months. "He needs family right now."

"Calleigh," she let out, and Calleigh marveled at how gentle and safe her name sounded on her lips. Standing, Clorinda made her way over, softly taking Calleigh's hand in hers despite her obviously guarded nature. "I've never seen him so happy. Even with finding out about his father and questioning everything, he's been smiling." She squeezed her hand gratefully, urging her closer.

This was wrong. Things between them weren't the same anymore. Getting to know his mother like this just felt wrong when today had broken them in a way she wasn't sure they could ever repair.

_She_ had questioned his father's involvement. Not only had she done that, but she'd questioned his own. She'd practically interrogated him, showing so little of the faith she'd always had in him –with good reason, too. He hadn't been very deserving of it lately, with secret phone calls and half-truths.

He'd fled a crime scene and she still didn't know why. She'd shot at him and she wasn't sorry. He shouldn't have been there, and she couldn't be here now, not with people who had nothing but strong, loving ties to him. She couldn't be here with bad blood spilled between them.

Calleigh gently but definitively pulled away. "Actually, I was going to go get some of his clothes and things from his house…so he'll have them when he wakes up."

Smiling sadly at that, Clorinda nodded. "Here, do you need a key?"

"No," Calleigh said, stopping abruptly when she realized the implication. Lips tightening in an awkward half-smile as Clorinda eyed her with a knowing smirk, she shifted a little. "No, I don't."

"Okay." Clorinda nodded, looking at her son as she comprehended the magnitude of this relationship. "I'll call you if anything changes."

"Thank you," she uttered, turning.

"And Calleigh?"

"Yes?"

The motherly part of her couldn't resist. "Try to get some rest."

"I will," she assured, though she didn't think she could even manage to close her eyes.

* * *

His home was almost worst than the hospital. This place held far too many memories, from the spacious living room in which she'd fallen asleep to SportsCenter in his warm arms, to the breakfast nook in which they'd had far more than breakfast.

For a multitude of reasons, she wasn't sure they would ever get back to that.

Calleigh smiled sadly, forcing tears back yet again as the closing door echoed throughout the empty house with a resonant click. She settled her purse into its usual resting place, and, taking her phone with her, climbed the stairs. Managing to ignore the king size bed that taunted her with memories, she began sorting through cargo shorts, t-shirts, and sweatpants.

She had a duffle bag halfway filled when she lost her resolve. There was too much between them – too many memories, too many questions, too many things left unsaid. Suddenly she had the overwhelming urge to wash this day away. So she turned the shower on hotter than she could stand it and she scrubbed her skin raw with his soap until his scent had seeped into her body.

But it hadn't worked at all and her phone still hadn't rung. Now changed into the extra jeans and top she kept at his place, she gave in to the memories, letting them swallow her whole as she tucked herself into his bed. Maybe his mother was right. She should try to rest, if only for the escape.

_She woke to warmth and sunlight, the rays gently kissing her skin through the skylights above. This was the first relaxing morning they'd had together and it felt good to wake to sunlight and silence instead of a blaring alarm._

_Sometime throughout the night he'd tugged her closer, his body outlining hers from behind, his arm tucked over her hip. He craved that contact, needed skin and a heartbeat next to his. She never had, really, but she could get used to this. It was endearing, and could serve as ammo for later teasing if he ever dared to accuse her of being soft or girly._

_Straightening her body in a slow stretch, she shifted and wrapped the sheets further around her body. The movement made him stir, and no sooner had he turned than she'd collected the sheets and moved atop him._

_Chuckling, his hands searched through twisted fabric for bare skin as he met her eyes._

"_Hi." She grinned down at him, planting her hands flat against his chest._

"_Hello. Sleep well?"_

"_Yeah…" Teasingly, she let her hands glide over his skin until her palms lightly pressed against his abdomen then grazed across to his sides. "You?"_

"_Yeah." He finally found her knee and wasted no time letting his fingers curve around her soft skin. "I needed that. It's been a long week."_

_She simply smiled, because where the long weeks used to run her ragged and leave her bone tired, she was now finding ways to make them a little less daunting. Judging by his fresh eyes and glowing skin, so was he._

"_You look good." His eyes roamed appreciatively over creamy skin and curves disguised in beige sheets. She quirked a playful, challenging brow and he grinned. "In my bed, in my sheets, on me…"_

"_Mmm." She bit her lip as his fingers skimmed her thigh. "I bet."_

_Scooting up in the bed, he shifted beneath her to sit up and pulled her knees in until she was tucked closer against his body. His slow exploration of her skin had resumed in no time, deft fingers creeping along her thigh until he found the delicate curve of her hip._

"_You know," she began playfully as his lips landed on her collarbone, "I recall us agreeing to take things slow two weeks ago."_

"_That was a day before you showed up to my place in those jeans."_

_Laughing, she hooked her arms around his shoulders, allowing his lips to continue their sensual assault on her warm skin. "Oh, so it was the jeans? Good to know…"_

"_Or maybe just you." He smiled against her skin, palm coasting over her skin until it rested at the small of her back. "Besides, we take things slow sometimes…" His hands coasted over her skin pointedly, going both everywhere and nowhere, and his lips teased her skin with the lightest kiss to the base of her throat._

The shrill ringing of her cell phone startled her, but she grasped it immediately so her bleary eyes could take in the number. Clorinda.

"Hello?"

"He's awake." Her voice was filled with awe, and it seemingly traveled right through the phone to settle in the pit of Calleigh's own stomach. "He's asking for you."


	2. A Coffin of Hope

Gunshots were all he could remember – bullets shattering glass, ricocheting off armored cars and lodging into unprotected ones. That soundtrack kept playing on loop throughout his subconscious and he wasn't sure if it was recent or two and a half years old.

The only solace was Calleigh, her touch both new and familiar, complicated yet simple. He knew that had been real, in the here and now, but when he'd finally fought off the injury and medicine induced haze, she'd been gone, her touch nothing more than a ghosting caress in dreams.

Everything else was a mess of gunshots, cars, and memories that didn't make sense. He wanted Calleigh back there to tell him the truth in that way of hers – blunt, yet exactly what he needed to hear. Because right now, the thoughts and feelings that stirred within him at just the memory of her touch, of the mere mention of her name, were far too advanced for their last conversation.

_The air conditioning was doing nothing to relieve his body of the heat that a forty-minute run in the scorching Florida sun had created. Shirtless and breathless, he headed straight into the kitchen to pull a glass from the cupboard. As he filled it with water from the dispenser on his fridge, his thoughts drifted to the truffles, to Calleigh and – damnit, wasn't that long run supposed to take his mind off her?_

_But it hadn't at all. Despite pounding music and speed and exertion, she'd forcefully crept back into his thoughts. Why had she taken off earlier than usual? Did she have plans? Had she sworn him off after he'd choked and failed to tell her what he really wanted? He couldn't blame her if she had, but he really hoped she hadn't because she was wrong. He _did_ believe it, so strongly that at times it scared the hell out of him. Sometimes _she_ scared the hell out of him, which was a new experience that also had him stammering and clueless._

_He'd guzzled half the glass when his doorbell rang, and he'd just barely managed to kick his favorite sneakers off before he tugged the door open._

"_Calleigh, hey." The surprise in his voice was evident as he looked her over. She was dressed almost as casually as him, her black blouse now removed to leave her in only a somewhat dirty white tank and her black pants scuffed with dirt and grime._

"_Hey." She smiled, blinking a little in the sunlight – her sunglasses were tucked atop her head. "Sorry, is this a bad time?" she asked, taking in his appearance – all shirtless, sweaty and breathless and…really quite attractive._

"_No, not at all." Grinning, he held the door open further and stepped aside. "I just got in from a run. You wanna come in?"_

_Fire. Playing with fire. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, discreetly taking in the way his basketball shorts hung low on perfectly defined hips. "Sure," she finally answered, because she so rarely played with fire and something told her it would be worth it this time._

"_I'm just gonna…find a shirt real quick," he said awkwardly, motioning down the hall. He ducked into the laundry room at the back of his house and Calleigh couldn't help but notice the way his muscles rippled as he slipped the shirt over his torso. "So," he began as he met her in the foyer, "what happened to you?"_

"_Oh." Calleigh glanced down at the huge smudge on her white tank top. When she tugged at the hem, he caught the briefest glimpse of creamy skin. "A horse really liked me and decided he needed to rub his face all over me."_

_He laughed, brows furrowing, but she was answering before he could even ask. "I went horseback riding…with that groomer we questioned today."_

"_Oh." Maybe she had moved on. "Like a…horseback riding date kind of thing?"_

"_Not from my end," she assured, smiling. Eric couldn't help but wear his heart on his sleeve and every worry about some horse guy sweeping her off her feet was currently written all over his face. And then she scrunched her nose up in this adorable way and he was smiling all over again. "I don't know. Is it naïve to have accepted it as just a horseback riding invitation?"_

_Chuckling, he bit his lip, imagining this guy tripping over her every other minute when all she wanted was a gallop around the track…and maybe a little company. She was a grown, confident woman; she knew when someone was attracted to her, but she was modest enough not to assume it._

"_When you look the way you do, it's a little naïve." The pointed tilt of his head and drag of his eyes over her body left few of his words without implication. "In a good way," he added, assuring her with a smile._

_The corners of her lips curved upward in response and she shifted, clasping her hands in front of her. "I stopped by the lab on the way home," she hinted, detecting recognition in his eyes. Smiling, she leaned against the doorway to his kitchen, thinking of the decorative box in her car, the delicate card with simply 'Cal' scrawled across it in his handwriting. "Thank you for the truffles."_

"_You're welcome," he replied, and as he met her eyes he lost all those carefully constructed words that had been on the tip of his tongue earlier when her phone just kept on ringing. Now they were stuck in another one of those mutual longing glances, her green eyes holding his as she just nodded slowly._

"_So," she began softly, breaking the reverie for once. "Was that your way of asking me out?" She was being teasing and playful, which they were so good at, but there was an underlying intensity in her eyes._

_He grinned. No – at least it hadn't been – but he could work with this. "Yeah, actually, and you coming here was your way of saying yes…so we're on for tomorrow night."_

"_Oh." And there it was – the outright forwardness she'd been waiting for, that confident charm he didn't hesitate to utilize with all the other girls. She pressed her lips together to fight the broad smile that would cost her a win in this game of playful banter. "Well then I'm glad I stopped by."_

"_Me too." The distance between them lessened as he took a few steps closer, and soon his fingers were brushing hers at her side. He lifted her hand, admiring the delicate weight of it in his, the softness of her creamy skin. His thumbs slid down her palm, touching, admiring as his eyes flickered back to hers._

_She'd thought that after eight years of friendship the crossing of boundaries, the liberating of their long since tempered down attraction for one another, would be at the very least a bit strange. But this…this was wonderfully maddening, his thumbs now almost lightly massaging her as they worked down to her wrist, their eyes still locked._

_And then his hand turned against hers, loosely weaving their fingers together as he held them at her side. "I'll see you tomorrow?"_

_Suddenly she remembered she needed to breathe, so she inhaled deeply and smiled. "See you tomorrow."_

And then she was there – really there, not just in foggy memories and subconscious dreams but in the doorway to his room. Dark denim jeans clung to her legs while a simple white v-neck top hugged her curves, and all together the beautifully casual combination had him questioning reality again.

She was waiting, conflicted as though she was trying to gauge his reaction. As her eyes drifted between his injuries and his dull eyes, he thought he caught a flash of something in her features. Guilt?

"Cal," he uttered, shifting in an attempt to sit up so he could see her better.

That was enough to bring her forward, to make her come right up to his bedside and place a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Don't, just rest." She swallowed hard, eyes watering as she pulled her hand away from his warm body. Her eyes flitted over him nervously and, despite everything, his lips curved upward just the slightest bit, misreading her hesitance as the awkward ebb and flow of all this emotion and attraction they'd been dancing around for years.

He noticed something more, though, and as she shook her head and fought tears he again sensed the notion that he was missing something.

She didn't know what to do, didn't know where they went from here. Deep down, she knew she'd been in the right to question him. And she knew, without a doubt, that she'd been right to shoot at that car. It had come barreling out of a crime scene in the midst of flying bullets, and it had been headed straight for her and Ryan. She couldn't have known it would swerve at the last minute, and she couldn't have known that the "suspects" inside were not a threat – or were they?

Eric's involvement was still a mystery, and until he told her the truth she didn't truly know if she could trust him again – not in the field, as a friend, and definitely not in her heart or her bed. Still, the part of her that had trusted him implicitly for so long felt to blame. In the field, she'd been a threat to him, too. It was possible that she'd inadvertently caused some of his injuries, that she'd made him disoriented enough to lose control of the car. She'd shot at him. She'd _shot_ at Eric.

"I'm sorry." Taking a step back, she shook her head, wondering how he could stand to just be here with her right now. A brush with death couldn't just sweep away all the anger, confusion, and accusation she'd seen in his eyes as he drove away from her.

"Cal," he said again, softer this time. His eyes held hers and he laid his hand flat against the hospital sheets, palm upward, waiting for hers.

"I don't know where to go from here," she admitted, and despite all the blame, despite all the trust issues, she moved close to take his hand in hers again.

"I need you to do something for me." His eyes searched hers, lacking clarity but full of purpose, and her hand instinctively tightened around his, their fingers interlocking.

"What?"

"My mom," he began, swallowing with difficulty at the dryness in his throat. "She said I was in an accident, coming from a scene." He paused, watching her and knowing by the intimate way her fingers threaded with his that in some way his feelings had gotten the chance to soar far past longing glances and loaded comments.

_A flash of bare skin, her warm body arching against his as their threaded fingers pushed into the mattress._

Taking a moment, he blinked, first unable to look at her and then unable to look away. Memory, or dream? He'd dreamed about her before, and there was nothing like a drug-induced near coma for seventeen hours to make the mind run wild…

Ignoring it, his thumb brushed over her skin imploringly. "I keep hearing bullets. I don't know if it's from before, when I was shot, or… I don't know."

She watched him with disbelief, his eyes flitting over their hands as though searching for invisible puzzle pieces to put together.

"I trust you, Calleigh." He looked at her again, eyes open and accepting yet confused. "I need you to tell me what happened."

She hadn't been able to help the disheartened sigh that came from deep within her chest, and suddenly her gaze was on him as though she were looking at a stranger. "You don't remember?"

Focusing on the ceiling, he tried to think back to yesterday, but it felt like time had shifted on him. Everything was out of place, even them, and all he could remember were those gunshots. "No," he finally answered. "I don't remember coming to any scene, or…" Losing his train of thought, he furrowed his brows in confusion and the aching in his head grew sharper. "I don't remember what happened."

"You were there with Sharova." She was a little too blunt, a little callous, but the realization that Eric might not have answers to her many questions – and the department's many questions – terrified her. She needed answers. "You fled the scene with him."

His breathing quickened at the thought, mind racing and struggling to comprehend just what had happened in the days before he'd woken up in this hospital bed. But there was nothing. He remembered looking into his father, confirming the truth with his mother. He remembered working a difficult case with Calleigh, having dinner with his family, leaving Calleigh the truffles and making plans with her… He remembered the feel of her hand in his, soft and distinct, and he remembered coming to work the next day feeling much lighter, but he remembered nothing more about his father.

"No, he has a hit on me," Eric told her, wishing the words sounded more certain. "I've been trying to track him down." And then his eyes narrowed on her, suspicious but more concerned, because he'd been trying to keep her safe. "How do you know about Sharova?"

And then her world fell out from under her. Because they'd talked about this, they'd argued for a _week_ about the father he didn't know, and in all her doubts about trust and motive she hadn't even considered he might not be able to confirm or quell them. She'd expected answers if he woke, and when he had she was ready to get them.

"Eric," she began shakily, uncurling her fingers from his. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in frustration as he tried to think back. It was like trying to find a file without any of the necessary information, though. He had snippets of places and people, but he couldn't put any of them in context. The last solid thing that came to him was Calleigh, her showing up at his place, holding her hand in his, falling asleep easily that night and waking the next morning to go to work… After that it faded, became hazy at the edges as time just sort of dropped off.

"I don't know." He tried harder, desperately searching for that day to come back to him. "I remember coming to work the day after you came to my place to thank me for the truffles… You and Ryan took the early call-out and the house caught fire. I remember worrying about you because you tried to be a hero and get the body out." Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily. "That's it. I don't remember anything else about my father. I don't remember…" Trailing off, he found her gaze again and waited for some help. This was much different than last time, when certain events and people escaped him. This time, it seemed he'd lost an entire chunk of time, and he had no idea what important events had been lost.

For an entirely different reason now, her eyes watered and she had to place a hand back on the bed to steady herself. Four months ago. That last thing he remembered was from _four months ago._ Panic swelled within her and the only thing that tore her from it was the feel of his warm, familiar fingers circling her wrist. His tired eyes were practically pleading with her and she tilted her head, sympathetic yet guarded.

"That was four months ago," she finally told him, watching with a pained expression as panic overtook him, too. She breathed in deeply, clinging to hope but expecting hell. "You don't remember Sharova helping you?" No reaction; he was at a loss. Her façade crumbled and she pressed her lips together tightly in a desperate attempt to ward off tears. And then, in the softest voice he'd ever heard from her, she asked, "Do you remember us?"

It hit him again.

_Her smile beneath his lips, creamy legs tangled with his, the feel of her hair slipping through his fingers…_

And that was it – as elusive as a dream. He had snippets, or dreams, but nothing else. How could he tell her that she felt like home to him, when he couldn't even remember a single thing they'd done together? That thought terrified him and sent his mind reeling for any recollection of them, of her. The absence he found there was devastating.

"I don't think so," he reluctantly admitted, hating the way her features fell. Undeterred, his fingers traced hers in the only contact he could have given the distance she was keeping.

Four months. Four months he'd lost of his life, of _their_ lives, apparently. Somewhere, deep down, he knew something had changed between them. Her touch resonated too deeply, too intimately, for things to have stayed anywhere close to platonic. And now both his heart and his mind literally ached for those four months. Because, even with the specific details missing, he knew what he'd felt for her, what they'd been to each other.

"This is gonna sound crazy, but I know how I feel about you. I remember you…that we were together, how I felt about you, that I was in love with you…" He stopped abruptly, the amazed but terrified look in her eyes telling him they hadn't quite said that yet.

But she knew. God, she knew, and the last place she ever wanted to hear it was in a hospital, when she didn't even know if she could trust him anymore. Everything had changed, and a part of her wondered if he had, too.

She couldn't go there right now, couldn't talk about them and everything he'd lost, but she took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on his. "It doesn't sound crazy," she assured him, thinking of the past four months. More crazy was how quickly she'd trusted and fallen, how fast the notion of home had come to involve him despite their separate houses as a much-needed boundary. After how the past few weeks had played out, maybe that had all been a mistake. "But a lot has happened, Eric."

"You can tell me," he urged, fingers grasping at her as she pulled away. He was aching for those details, for the memories of them; she could see it in his eyes, so much different than the expression they'd held just a day ago.

Calleigh shook her head, thinking of the anger, the betrayal, in his eyes when he'd swerved away in that car. If he knew – if he _remembered_ – then he might not even want her here right now. She hadn't trusted him, and that mistrust may have been well placed considering the circumstances. She would never know for sure now, not unless these past few weeks would come magically waltzing back into his conscious collection of memories.

It would be easier for him to hate her for this than to remember what they'd lost, to remember that betrayal and suspicion.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was a soft whisper and she shook her head, wiping a lone tear from her cheek with the tips of her fingers. "I'm glad you're okay, but I can't do this."

With that, she was gone, taking his memories and his heart with her. And now he was the one with unanswered questions.


	3. In Keeping Secrets

It felt good to be at home – and right now that wasn't her house, where memories of him lay in wait around every corner, but rather in her ballistics lab. Here she knew what to expect, and she could immerse herself in bullet weights and striations instead of stolen memories and feelings.

This whole situation was complicated, and guns were simple, familiar, and comforting. She could lose herself in the tedious work of processing each gun – checking for trace, conducting an overall inspection, identifying the ammo, gearing up, test firing, and analyzing. That process was ingrained enough in her to be soothing, yet it required just enough brainpower to almost distract her from the thought of Eric lying in the hospital without any recollection of how he'd ended up there.

She didn't dare let herself consider what other memories from the past four months he'd lost. If she went there, she knew she might not come back.

Instead she threw herself into work, spreading case files out over the table and lining up guns to test fire. By the time her goggles and earmuffs were on and she was poised at the range for her favorite part, an uncharacteristic hesitance had settled over her.

It was just a 9 mil, similar to hers, but as she slapped a loaded magazine into the base and rocked the slide back to chamber the first round, she felt uneasy instead of comforted. And when she took her stance, aimed, and pulled the trigger, she knew just why.

Eric. She'd _shot_ at Eric.

She'd thought she would have been above the psychological manifestations of such an event, at least professionally, but no. Every time she squeezed that damn trigger, _Eric_ came into her field of view – Eric in that car, barreling out of the garage and swerving away from her. The confusion in his eyes haunted her with every crack of a gunshot.

After only a few shots she had to recollect, locking the safety and bracing herself against the counter. Closing her eyes, she willed away the image of him at the scene and desperately tried to force back the sweeping realization that she could've killed him yesterday. It was futile, though. He plagued her every waking moment, both personally and professionally.

She lowered her head, running her fingers through her long hair to pull back the curtain of blonde that had surrounded her. It was only then, when she'd collected her hair over one shoulder and turned around, that she noticed Natalia in her lab.

"Hey… Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt." Natalia turned, glancing from the gun Calleigh currently had out to the spread of open cases on her desk. It was mostly a diversion so Calleigh wouldn't pick up on the genuine worry in her eyes.

Natalia had to admit that she was still a little gun shy. Gunshots still made her jump and when she had to squeeze the trigger in the field, the thought of potentially taking a life, even a criminal's life, was enough to make her hesitate. She was tough, and proud of her ability to protect herself – and her team – in the field, but for her it was natural that shooting a gun still made her flinch a little.

For Calleigh, however, flinching was unheard of. Natalia knew she'd grown up around guns and had entered the academy fresh out of college. She'd always intended to work with guns in a law enforcement setting, and Natalia had never seen her appear anything less than absolutely certain about taking a shot.

Today, though, Calleigh had flinched. After every shot, Natalia had watched her body involuntarily jump in reaction until the ordeal had finally overwhelmed her and she closed her eyes. Nothing shook Calleigh this much…nothing except Eric, apparently. Because even though Calleigh had brushed it off and delivered a bunch of patented, perfected lines of 'I'm fine' to everyone, Natalia knew she wasn't. You don't shoot at your boyfriend, spend hours wondering if he's alive, and return to work the next day unscathed.

"Oh, hey." Shifting uncomfortably, Calleigh tried to force a friendly smile. "It's okay. I just have to get these and run a striation comparison. What's up?"

Calleigh was already distractedly moving about the room, keeping busy and staying in motion where she'd normally give her full attention to the conversation at hand. Natalia simply watched her, hesitating in response as she absentmindedly toyed with a ring on one of her fingers.

"Look, I know that you say you're fine, and I respect that." She kept her eyes on Calleigh's restless frame. "I really do. So, I wanted to just let you work while Ryan and I took care of the whole Sharova thing…"

"But…?" Calleigh asked knowingly as she placed a bullet beneath a scope.

"But he won't talk." Eyes still on Calleigh, she watched her mouth tighten, watched her quickly swallow the lump of anxiety in her throat that threatened her resolve. "He says he'll only talk to you."

* * *

Calleigh wanted absolutely no part of this – none at all. She'd tried to distance herself from it, tried to protect Eric without crossing a line herself, and yet here she was. She felt like _that_ cop – the one certain criminals asked for while all the other officers turned their heads – and she was furious that Eric was still managing to drag her further into this mess.

All business, she entered the holding cell with barely a glance his way and slapped a case file on the table. She slid the chair in close, unafraid, yet settled in with her arms and legs crossed, her back pressed against the chair for a bit of distance. It went against Interrogation 101, but she knew that wasn't what this was anyway.

When he still hadn't said a word, she looked directly at him and raised her brows expectantly. She couldn't last long; his blue eyes were piercing, yet they somehow reminded her of Eric.

"How is Eric? They won't tell me anything," Alexander said, a thick Russian accent coloring his words.

"You aren't really in a position to be asking for information." Her eyes drifted pointedly to the cuffs around his wrists.

The left side of his mouth curved into a precarious smirk. His eyes drifted over her features curiously. She was good at this, he was sure – clever, probably, but so was he. "No? I know quite a bit."

"Like what?" Unaffected, her eyes danced over him, though she suddenly recognized this as a chance to get her answers.

"How's my son?"

Now there was the fire he was sure had been lurking just beneath her sea green eyes. He smiled, testing her as her eyes practically bore through him with disdain.

"Don't call him that." Her words had a practiced, calculated coolness to them that her eyes could never achieve.

Alexander pursed his lips. "How is he?"

"Fine."

He waited for more, eyes growing expectant when she failed to continue. "That's it? I know you must know more…"

There was a playfulness to his words, a teasing, that she immediately picked up on. Her eyes narrowed on him slightly. It was just for a moment, but he knew he'd piqued her interest.

"Don't worry, he wouldn't tell me," Alexander assured, yet something in his tone was still condescending. "He was hesitant about certain things – where we met, how he was involved. Protective, almost…about something, some_one_." He lifted his cuffed hands to his head, where his thumb could scrape across his brow. "And then I saw how worried you were at the scene and I knew."

Calleigh's eyes challenged his as though the words were pointless. In a way, they were. "I work every day to put people like you away," she said coldly. "Why would I give you information?"

"People like me?" The heavy Russian accent rolled off his tongue and he pointed a finger at his own chest, shrugging. "You don't know me."

"Does Eric?"

"He knows enough."

"I'm sure," Calleigh retorted accusingly. Her eyes engaged his with a ferocity that impressed him.

"How is he?" Alexander pressed.

"He needed stitches and a transfusion, but he's fine," she offered convincingly. She couldn't trust him, couldn't risk him taking advantage of Eric's memory loss in order to sway things in his favor. "He's making a list right now for us – names, locations…" Pressing her lips together, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, mirroring him. They needed answers for the investigation; _she_ needed answers for herself. "If you talk now, we can still bargain with the ADA on your charges."

He grinned, amused by the realization that he could trust her as little as she thought she could trust him. Moving his hands to his chin, he scratched his unshaven face with worn, tired fingers.

"Eric knows how dangerous that information is," he began, pressing his fingers to his lips contemplatively. "He wouldn't want you to have it. I wouldn't even let him know of certain locations… Even so, they'll be looking for him." His blue eyes held hers. "Is he still in the hospital?"

Jaw set, Calleigh refused to answer. She didn't trust him at all, not even in light of his seemingly genuine concern or the way his eyes changed shape like Eric's when he smiled. She was trying not to notice.

"He knows too much." Alexander lowered his hands, but kept his eyes on her. "By now, they have a hit on him again. Keep him in the hospital as long as you can. They'll find his house and wait for him."

Swallowing hard, she focused on the case. And maybe if they could find these men, if they could climb high enough up the chain, the hit would be forgotten. Maybe, if she worked the case hard enough, she could keep them from Eric.

"I thought you wanted to talk," she said after collecting herself enough. "Maybe give me some real information."

Alexander frowned and leaned back in his chair. "That kind of information will put a crosshair on your back."

"Good to know," she let out sarcastically, a sardonic smile just barely tugging at her lips. Collecting the unnecessary case file in her hands, she sighed and stood. "Have me paged if you decide to tell me something useful."

"You start looking into them, and they'll take you out before you get close." He straightened slightly. "Eric learned that the hard way."

Her eyes were cold, direct, and yet below the surface was the sweeping realization that he'd given her the most vital information after all.

_By now, they have a hit on him again._

Calleigh turned without regret, passing the two guards as familiar uneasiness made her chest tighten with anxiety. Struggling to breathe through the sudden ache, her usually steady, controlled walk took on a hurried pace.

_Keep him in the hospital as long as you can. They'll find his house and wait for him._

He was in danger, and maybe he deserved that. Maybe he'd done more than cross a line, and maybe she couldn't trust him. Still, she knew what she had to do.

* * *

Room 327 was a mystery to her now. With its shades drawn and door closed, she had no idea what was going on inside – no idea _who_ was inside even. She hoped it was him, and then she rolled her eyes sadly at the thought of wishing him _in_to a hospital when they'd spent so much time wishing each other out.

She didn't realize she'd come to a standstill in the middle of the hallway until one of the orderlies had to awkwardly sidestep her. Moving out of the way, she pressed her lips together as she eyed the folder by the door. She made sure her black top was hooked atop her holster, revealing her badge, before she stepped in close and rose up on the tips of her toes to check the label.

Eric Delko.

Relief overwhelmed her, though it was short-lived.

"Now I know that you know visiting hours are over," came the familiar, smooth, and velvety voice. Alexx.

Calleigh turned, smiling as much as she could muster under the circumstances. "I wasn't visiting," she defended playfully, though Alexx noted the underlying sadness in her eyes. "I was just checking to see if he'd been discharged yet. H wanted to know when we could expect to speak with Eric about everything."

Alexx smiled, but tilted her head questioningly. CSIs were good liars in general, and Calleigh was exceptionally hard to read, but the thought of Calleigh here for work – not a visit – just rubbed her a little wrong. She smiled her way through it.

"Well, I checked in on him earlier," Alexx began with a glance to his door. "He's doing great physically. Losing several months of memories is a little concerning, though, but not uncommon." She shrugged. "I'm sure his doctor will want to monitor him for a few days, maybe a week, for clots and neurological symptoms, but he's healing quickly already."

Releasing the bated breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Calleigh sighed and placed a hand over her anxiety-ridden stomach. "That's good."

"Mmhmm," Alexx muttered sarcastically. "It's a miracle, actually. You all need to stop counting on them and quit throwing yourselves at bullets, speeding in cars, and running into burning buildings."

When even that barely drew an appreciative smile from Calleigh, Alexx knew something was wrong. Her eyes were cloudy and conflicted, and her entire body seemed uneasy – fingers fidgeted with each other, her posture needed the support of the wall, and she looked literally sick with worry.

"Calleigh," she said softly, drawing Calleigh's eyes to hers. "How long had you and Eric been seeing each other?"

Straightening, Calleigh was about to ask how Alexx knew, but soon realized it was pointless. This was Alexx.

Her lips curved upward but it wasn't a smile at all. "Four months?" she offered, brows knitting together for a moment before she shrugged.

"He doesn't remember," Alexx realized aloud. "Baby," she began sympathetically, lifting a hand to touch Calleigh's shoulder supportively.

"No," Calleigh insisted, shaking her head dismissively. Alexx's hand never made contact, instead slowly retracing its path back to her side. "I think it's better this way."


	4. No Way Back

In a rare moment of lightheartedness, Eric was actually laughing. Ryan was seated across from him, dealing cards at the side table in the hospital room and being atypically disclosing about his latest romantic faux pas. They'd always had a little friendly competition going on when it came to women, so Eric knew he must've been feeling overly sympathetic towards him if he was openly admitting his losses. As nice as it was, Eric still had no problem fully taking advantage of it.

"So wait," he began, an entertained smile dancing across his lips, "you actually forgot to _text_ her the next day?" He chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Come on, Wolfe. Calling I can maybe understand, but texting takes thirty seconds."

"Or five minutes, if you're t9 illiterate," Ryan countered, eyeing him accusingly over the spread of cards in his hand.

"Hey, that was a very confusing phone," Eric defended as he swapped the middle card onto the end, organizing his hand. "Even the sales rep said so."

"Anyway." Ryan drew a card, frowned, and discarded it. "Speaking of tangled relationships, what's with you and Calleigh?"

"Smooth lead-in," Eric sarcastically complimented. Taking his turn, he drew a card, set down another, and matched Ryan's bet in chips that would mean nothing at the end of the game. "What about me and Calleigh?" The ease with which the question rolled off his lips surprised him because she hadn't left his thoughts even though she hadn't entered his vision in days.

"You guys were all, y'know." He gestured, bringing his hands together. "And now you barely speak."

"You knew?"

"You didn't know I knew?"

Eric shook his head as though searching. "I don't remember…"

Ryan frowned for a moment, wondering just how much time he'd lost and studying him with honest but masked sympathy. And then, as he thought of all the looks they thought had been discreet and the "hidden" coffee deliveries, the corners of his lips rose just a bit. "You guys thought you had some big secret."

Smiling despite himself, Eric asked, "Was it that obvious?" It was going to hurt, but he wanted – no, _needed_ – to know more.

"Maybe not to the techs and stuff," Ryan admitted as he drew a card, discarded another, and threw in more chips. "But to me and Nat?" He smiled, idly spinning a chip and remembering the way Calleigh's shoulders would always relax whenever Eric stepped into the room. "Yeah, pretty obvious."

Sighing at the loss, Eric wondered how much he should divulge. Professionally, his memory was his saving grace and he had very little of it; the fewer people who knew he remembered nothing about the Russians, the better things would go for him.

"One week Calleigh's car was parked outside the lab for three nights straight." Ryan laughed a little, pushing his hand of cards into a stack and tapping it against the table. "You started repeating outfits."

Making light of it, Eric simply smiled. "Okay, I get it. Clearly I was very smooth," he said sarcastically, meeting his friend's gaze with a bit more light in his eyes than Ryan had seen lately. And then, as he took his turn, he remembered the distance and distrust in Calleigh's eyes when she'd left him. Swallowing hard, he tried to be nonchalant as he asked, "How is she?"

"Calleigh?" Ryan countered pointlessly, receiving a solid, expectant gaze in response. He sighed heavily, focusing on the cards as he gathered his thoughts. "How do you think?" he questioned with as much sympathy as accusation. "You came barreling out of a warehouse full of criminals, driving straight for us. You put her in a position where she had to shoot at you. None of us know what to think."

Eric froze in his chair, pieces of a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve anymore finally fitting together. Had he gotten in the middle of things with the Russians? Had he gone too far? He had no idea, and all he could do was study Ryan's features for clues and attempt to pretend he remembered this all.

They'd finally addressed the elephant in the room and Ryan shook his head, shrugging as he attempted to answer the original question. He hadn't wanted to do this, hadn't wanted to address any of it. He'd just wanted to visit Eric, boost his morale and help him get better faster, but he'd asked… "She's different. Guarded, quiet."

Eric swallowed again. "She was guarded before."

Ryan smiled sadly, no humor in his features. "I know, and the last thing she needed was someone she couldn't trust." By the look in Eric's eyes, Ryan knew he'd followed that implication and he bowed his head regretfully. "Look, we've worked together a while. I know you'd never get into anything dirty, but you can't say you haven't crossed lines for family in the past…"

Somewhat defensive now, Eric narrowed his eyes slightly on Ryan. "Sharova isn't family."

Ryan nodded, understanding, and studied him with more than just a hint of concern. He was confused and conflicted, a little lost, but the look in his eyes completely changed a moment later. Following Eric's gaze, Ryan turned around to find Calleigh hesitating at the doorway.

"Hey," she greeted, eyes nervously dancing between them. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, you're good," Eric assured, briefly taking in her work attire of black pants, heels, a dressy purple tank, and a suit blazer. It was a far cry from the curve-hugging jeans and white tee he'd seen her in last. He preferred the latter for a number of reasons, though right now he was focused on how the suit made her seem all down to business. And he was pretty sure she was, given her previous absence; something told him she wouldn't be here if she didn't have to be. "Come on in."

Ryan instinctively stood, silently fumbling for an out that wouldn't seem awkward. "I should probably get going." Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, he slipped it on over his dress shirt. "Finish this some other time soon?"

It took Eric a moment, still reeling from their conversation, but he finally nodded. "Yeah, another time," he answered, collecting the cards as Ryan began to leave. "Since you won't be having any second dates anytime soon." He received a dismissive wave in response and had to grin a little despite the weight now looming over him with Calleigh standing there.

"Ryan having girl troubles?" She smiled uncomfortably, thankful for an icebreaker, and stepped in closer to grip the back of the now empty chair.

"Yeah, you could say that." Unable to take his eyes off her already, he gestured to the chair. "Go ahead and make yourself at home," he said, attempting lightheartedness. "I have crackers, and lumpy pudding if you want me to take advantage of the middle-age nurse who thinks I'm charming."

She pursed her lips at that, fighting a smile as she took the seat across from him. "Think I'll have to pass. I like the new room, though. No more ICU."

Her eyes flickered across his features just once and she noted that most of his color had returned to his caramel skin. His eyes held a bit more life and he had his own clothes on – the worn charcoal grey t-shirt and dark denim jeans she'd brought him. "And you seem better," she said, trying to hide the depth of relief behind her words.

"I am." His mouth tightened as he held her gaze for a moment, the confusion in her eyes far too reminiscent of the last time he'd seen her.

"That's good."

"You aren't."

Her brows furrowed briefly and she looked downward. Resting her hands on the table, she distractedly weaved her fingers together and focused her eyes there.

Too personal. As though sensing the emotions she was fighting, he leveled with her. "I know you're probably here because of work… They starting the investigation?"

"No, I don't think so." She sighed, watching her thumb slide along the side of her palm before she finally met his eyes. "The protection detail Horatio requested for you was denied," she told him regretfully. "At least until the internal investigation clears you."

He could tell there was more to her words and he studied her, waiting. "If they clear me," he finally added for her.

She bit her lip and then breathed in deeply. "Yeah."

His involvement was still a mystery to him, and so the whole protection thing seemed a little extreme. He shrugged, oblivious to the extent of the situation. "So I'll lay low at home for a while and back off Sharova."

He had no idea how involved this had become, how involved _he_ had become, and it worried her. Sharova's words drifted into her mind for the hundredth time in the past few days.

_By now, they have a hit on him again._

How could he go home under such a misconception? How could he go home at all, alone with the complications of brain surgery?

_They'll find his house and wait for him._

He couldn't; she knew that, and her gut reaction to it troubled her. Swallowing hard, she bit back the onslaught of need and distrust stirring within her. "It's a bit more involved than that," she admitted, focused on her hands again. "There's a green light on you again. They think you know too much."

In watching her, it sunk in. He was in danger again, as evidenced by her regretful words and her desperate hold on her emotions. She was almost too collected on the surface, but struggling underneath as they sat in a heavy silence.

"When are they discharging you?" she asked softly.

"Tomorrow, I think," he began, "with lots and lots of pain meds, and follow-up appointments, and therapy recommendations." He shook his head slowly and blinked, overwhelmed by it all – and by having to do it again. "So what should I do, sleep at MDPD?"

She smiled sadly at his sarcasm, need taking over and words flowing from her of their own accord. "No, you should let me go home with you." The deep, steadying breath she sucked in next had him wondering if she meant it.

"No," he insisted, his brows weaving together in concern. She hadn't even been able to remain in the same room as him – with good reason, evidently. "Calleigh, I'll be fine. I'm a cop; I have a gun, and training. I've dealt with them before."

"Not like this." She shook her head knowingly, Sharova's threats still running through her mind. "And not while recovering from brain surgery. You'll need some help anyway."

"I can't ask you to do this, Cal." This was wrong for a number of reasons, and he couldn't even fathom having her back in his home when he never remembered her being there in the first place. He watched her carefully, noting the telltale nervous press and roll of her lips as she let his words sink in.

"Then it's good you're not asking." The intimate nickname had hit her hard, made her remember the feel of his fingertips against her skin, but she steeled herself. She was good at that. "Because I don't know what you were into, but I'm tired of waiting. I waited for this to blow over, and when it did the complete opposite it was _five_ _hours_ before I even knew if you were alive. And after all that waiting, I still don't have answers…but I'm not going to just stand back, wait some more, and hope you don't get killed this time. I can't do that."

Her eyes met his, a part of her unguarded for a brief moment, and for once he could feel the depth with which she cared – or had cared – for him. It hit him hard, made him want to touch her like in the snippets of memories or dreams that kept haunting him. He needed to know if her skin really felt that soft beneath his fingertips, if she really leaned into his touch with such ease as though she were coming home. He wanted to see her eyes flutter open beneath him, soft and unguarded, with every bit of the expressiveness he knew was lurking just beneath the surface. Most of all, he wanted to comfort her for everything that had escaped his memories.

On instinct, he reached for her, fingers seeking hers in a gesture that felt all too natural. But she pulled away just as instinctively, quickly sliding her hands back before his touch could grace her.

"I'm sorry," she uttered, her words softer now, as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I can't… I'll see you tomorrow."

With that she was gone, escaping into the hallway with a heavy heart and a racing mind. She had to stop just outside, leaning against the wall in the near-empty hallway to collect herself. She knew she'd just hurt him; she hadn't needed to wait in there to find confusion in his eyes to know that.

Folding her arms across her chest in the chilly hallway, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. After a steady breath or two, she looked off to the side and exhaled. Like the majority of people, hospitals had always unnerved her, but the spot her eyes had landed on left her feeling oddly comforted.

Room 440, where she'd woken in a silent, collected panic until the weight of a familiar watch on her wrist had eased her. Finally conscious, his words had danced through her memories, calmed her, and she'd drifted off again until he was back. And then he'd refused to leave, had played sentry by her side until she was well…

_It was amazing, really – and slightly annoying – that he wouldn't let her do a thing. Her oxygen absorption levels were high enough to warrant discharge from the hospital, but still far enough below normal that she was having a few dizzy spells. The doctor had recommended that she not lift much weight or exert herself for a while, and unfortunately Eric had been there to take that recommendation as a bible verse carved out in stone._

_He'd refused to let her make any trips down to the car save for their last one, and he hadn't even let her carry any of the bags or potted gift plants across the room. He'd at least let her pack up, but he'd slowed her down when the hurried clacking of her stiletto boots had resulted in a bout of dizziness just outside the bathroom._

_She'd needed the reminder, had needed him a little…maybe. Because not being up to her usual speed was unacceptable to her and subsequently she found it hard to slow down. She would push herself too much, and between the medication and her low oxygen intake, she'd needed the break he'd instituted._

_And so she sat, waiting by the window with the dreamlike sun spilling into the room. She'd seen the Miami skyline a billion times, though, and her eyes unwaveringly drifted to him as he walked back into the room._

"_Hey." He grinned, taking in her features – one green eye practically glowing in the bright sun, the other masked in shadows. "Ready to go?"_

"_God, yes." She smiled, stood carefully, and hoisted the duffle bag onto her shoulder, much to his displeasure. It only took him a moment to slide the strap from her arm and replace it over his._

_Calleigh tilted her head in playful disdain, feeling useless. He offered her small black purse to her as an olive branch and she pursed her lips, fighting a smile._

"_I've got everything," he assured her for the tenth time that day. "You need to rest. Just trust me."_

_Smiling, her eyes danced between his, taking his words at much more than just face value. "I do," she uttered meaningfully, twisting his words into so much more, especially for her._

_His lips curved upward and there, in the middle of the hospital room she'd been in for days, he slipped his hand into her hair to cradle her neck and pressed his lips to hers for the first time. She was surprised, but it hadn't taken her long to move against him._

_The first thing that occurred to her was that she probably still smelled like hospital, and the second was that he was so soft with her, slower than she'd expected from him. And he only let her have a moment, tearing his lips from hers after a slow press and slide to let her take in a much needed lungful of air._

"_Let's go," he urged, gently bumping the bridge of her nose with his._

She really had trusted him. Implicitly. But the longer she stared at the room, the more uneasy she became.


	5. Awake Is the New Sleep

**Note: **_Sorry the updates have been slow with this one. I admit it was put on the back burner for a bit while I finished The Beautiful Side of Somewhere, but now I get to focus on this a lot more, which is exciting because I have a lot of ideas for it!_

* * *

He was signing his discharge papers when she appeared in the doorway. His eyes fell on her with little amusement and he scoffed, shaking his head at her promptness.

"You're not gonna babysit me," he insisted, scratching his name across another dotted line. Mostly, he was trying to keep his gaze away from the dark denim jeans that clung to the length of her legs – which, he had to note, looked surprisingly long when complimented by those heeled boots.

"No, I'm not." She was leaning against the doorframe now, one foot in and one foot out. It seemed rather appropriate it to him. And then, with a bit of attitude in her furrowed brows, she stepped inside with few reservations. "I'm just going to be your eyes and ears while you recover." Leaning against the bottom rail of the bed, she laid her palms across her thighs. She felt uneasy – and too close to him, but she would have to get used to that. "So you can get some rest," she added a moment later. "You can't drive with everything you're on, anyway."

"Oh, so you're gonna cart me around, too?" he challenged, raising a brow. "Think I'll just skip the pain meds."

Calleigh cocked her head at him, playfully judgmental. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll need the meds. 'Cause I'm _not_ babysitting." She sighed impatiently, when really their next situation was going to be vastly more uncomfortable. "Come on, H wanted someone from the team on this anyway."

"And you're the best shot?"

The pleased little smirk gracing her features as she shrugged vaguely was answer enough. He sighed heavily and signed the last page. "You're really okay with this? I mean, with-"

"I'm fine." She cut him off before he could go there, before he could even touch the giant elephant of an issue between them. "I told you. I just don't want you to get hurt."

He dropped his eyes to hers, but she looked away before it could become anything.

"Okay," he let out decidedly, collecting both the papers and the bag she'd packed for him days ago. "I guess I can deal with having a bodyguard for a few days."

"Good." Her lips tightened in an attempted smile.

She walked with him, stopping briefly at the desk to turn the forms in. After that, they were home free, and an uneasy silence followed them through the halls. Outside, in the light of day, she took in a lungful of air and released it on a sigh.

"I was thinking," she started, "if we wanted to take the precaution, you could just stay at my place. It's possible they know your address, but they won't know to look for mine."

Maybe that was the rational decision, he thought, considering it for a moment. They'd be safer there, and she'd probably be more comfortable. But all he could think about was her home – how he should've known the details but didn't, how he'd probably been there a hundred times yet had no recollection of the color of her sheets, what she'd feel like curled up against him in them. It was haunting – and unfamiliar in a way it shouldn't have been.

"No," he uttered with a little too much weight. "I don't want them gunning for your place, too."

"Really, Eric, I-"

"No," he insisted, cutting her off this time. He wouldn't avoid the moment like she had, and so when she glanced over at him his eyes charged hers with meaning. "I don't want you getting hurt either. You're already too involved."

She swallowed hard, averting her eyes to the sea of cars at a standstill in the parking lot. He didn't remember her home, or the presence of her in his, but she sure did. She remembered that he liked to bury himself beneath his sheets with her, keeping her up ungodly late and making her sleep until a completely unproductive hour in the morning. She remembered what the sight of their running shoes haphazardly strewn across her floor together after a morning run did to her. And her stomach would practically flip every time he'd take it slow, his fingers brushing the sensitive underside of her knee, before suddenly tugging her toward him.

She could recall, clear as day, the first third night in a row she'd spent with him. She'd felt comfortable, relaxed, and safe. It hadn't felt like a violation of their boundaries – or of her heart – but more like coming home.

Unlike him, she remembered everything. She made a silent promise to close herself off from memories of how it had been and to focus on how it would be: different, her in one room and him in the next. No late night talks and gentle caresses, but instead distance and self-preservation.

"Okay," she halfheartedly agreed.

* * *

He hadn't considered how unsettling it would be to come home to a house that wasn't the same one he remembered. Well, it _was_ his house, but in the four months he'd lost it had apparently changed a little. A red throw blanket was draped over the back of his couch, livening up the masculine blacks and browns in his living room. He had to wonder if that had a little something to do with her, because he never got cold – at least not in Florida.

The little nuances were throwing him off. There were two issues of Sport Diver magazine he didn't recognize on his coffee table, along with a few files of notes for court on cases he couldn't recall handling. A picture he didn't remember seeing of his nephew was clipped to his refrigerator. Though it seemed like it at times, Calleigh was not the only thing that had disappeared from his life.

"Eric," came her whisper from the base of the stairs. It was dark, save for the little light streaming in from his back patio spotlight, but he could make out the silhouette of her – and the 9mil in her hands.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I heard movement," she defended, a thick, sleepy southern accent coloring her words. "You popped two Vicodin before going to bed. I didn't think you'd be awake anytime soon."

"Yeah, well, unfortunately that stuff doesn't keep me down for long." He sighed, eyes quickly drifting back to his living room. He couldn't get used to it this way – changed, holding memories he couldn't recall. These damn walls knew more than he did.

She flipped the safety back on and relaxed her shoulders, the gun dropping to her side in one hand. After rolling her neck to ease the ache that had settled into her shoulders, she focused on him, there, in the dark…staring at his living room.

"You okay?" she asked, much softer now.

"Yeah." She'd effectively drawn him from his daze, and he shook his head a little to clear the remnants of it away. "It's just…there are things here I don't remember and I wish I did."

She held her breath, because she could really do without the memories right now. But losing four months altogether would be disorienting, confusing, and unbearable, especially after everything he'd been through.

"Yeah, that has to be a little weird." Her voice was soft and sympathetic; he knew she meant it as an understatement. And then, ever the optimist, she added, "Maybe you'll get some memories back as you heal."

It was a possibility – a very, very slight one he didn't have much hope for, but as his eyes searched for hers he entertained her optimism. "Yeah, hopefully. 'Cause right now it feels kinda like I checked out, went somewhere for a while, and someone else lived in my house while I was gone."

She smiled understandingly; he could make out the beautiful curve of her lips in the dark. They were still, quiet, as he watched her and the silent moment held a little too much for her. "I think I'll make some tea. You want anything?"

"What happened to no babysitting?" he asked as he followed her into the kitchen.

"I'm not babysitting. I'm being nice." Now that there were no revealing windows, she flipped on a light and set her gun on the nearest counter.

"Good luck finding tea in my kitchen." The disgust in his words was evident, but as he took in her small form in the bright light, he was anything but.

Between the oversized plaid pajama pants riding low on her hips and the sporty white tank clinging to her upper body, he was seeing her in a new light. And he liked it. A lot. She was casual, somehow relaxed, and, he had to admit, a little unintentionally sexy. Her hair was down, tousled from sleep – or lack of it – and that tank revealed more of her body than he'd ever been privy to. He had a new fascination with the curve of her hip, a new love of the way too-long pants mostly covered her tiny feet.

Most of all, he was amazed by how comfortable she seemed here as she moved about. She knew where everything was. He watched her stretch up for a mug from the cabinet, retrieve a spoon from a drawer and then bump it closed with her hip while she reached for the faucet. She had a routine here, a familiarity that spoke of countless days and nights spent here, with him. He was transfixed.

She caught his eyes and questioned them, questioned his sudden silence. "What?"

"Nothing." He shook his head slowly, resting his back against the counter to stare at the opposite side of the kitchen – and not at her.

But her brows knit as she set a mug full of water in the microwave. "Are you sure?" Her tone revealed genuine concern over confusion, or pain, or brain surgery complications, and he had to smile.

"Really," he assured, his eyes flickering back to her at a safe distance beside him. "It's just…" He let his gaze dance across her hips and down to the floor before he met her amused eyes again. "You wear plaid pants that are rolled like fifty times," he noted, his voice taking on a more admiring tone than he'd meant to reveal. "It's…kinda cute."

She smiled reluctantly, a flash of what they once shared in her eyes. But he didn't remember, and she wasn't sure she could trust him, anyway. So she focused on the cup turning round in the microwave, focused on the boiling water. And then she moved aside, pulling a teabag from a nearby drawer.

She had tea here, he realized as she dipped it in the water. Of course she did. Girly, organic herbal tea that smelled of raspberries and triggered his mind before he even had time to open himself to the memory.

_He found her in the kitchen. She looked tired and small, but her eyes were bright. The memory was still fuzzy at best._

"_Hi," she said shyly, clutching a cup of tea to her chest. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"_

"_No," he murmured, burying his face into her neck as he rested his hands on the counter on either side of her. "The lack of you woke me." She smiled, took another sip of tea, and then set it down. Raspberry danced through his senses. "Can't sleep?"_

"_No," she admitted, drumming her warm fingers against his chest. "I'm wired."_

"_Mmm." His hands moved to her hips, his lips to her shoulder. "Bet I could wear you out."_

"_Is that a challenge?" she asked, tilting her chin upward as he peppered kisses up the base of her throat._

"_You bet," he whispered before claiming her lips. The taste of raspberry and herbs hit his tongue and suddenly he was very, very fond of tea._

"Why were you down here?"

Her voice drew him from the complicated scene and he struggled to come back, his head lightly pounding. She was amazing – felt amazing, tasted amazing. He wanted to go back. But was it even real? Was it a memory, or just a dream based on a few vague snippets? He couldn't trust his mind anymore.

"I couldn't sleep," he told her after a moment, shrugging. That was the simple answer.

"Me either." She sighed and turned to lean back against the counter, too.

He wanted to ask her if it had really happened – them, here…anywhere. Instead, he went for the other piece of the puzzle. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened that day?"

She took a cautious sip before pressing her lips together in thought. Memories were subjective. She could tell him what she remembered, could put words in his mouth and images in his mind, but ultimately only he knew what he had done that day.

Staring into her mug absentmindedly, she answered, "I'm hoping you can tell me soon."

He nodded, biting at his lip a little. "Yeah, me too." Looking over at her, he took in her tired features and careful, slow movements. He wanted to watch her like this, so at home in his home, forever, but she looked exhausted. "You should try again to get some sleep," he suggested. "You have to work in the morning."

"So should you." Tucking her long hair behind an ear, she smiled. "You have to face the wrath of IAB in the morning."

He shook his head, running a nervous hand over the back of his neck. "Don't remind me."

She sighed decidedly and pushed away from the counter, one hand wrapped around her mug. "Well, I'm gonna try."

The corners of his lips turned upward sympathetically. "Good luck."

She stepped forward, but hesitated, sensing the distance in his eyes and halfhearted conversation in his words. "You sure you're okay? Do you need anything?"

"No," he lied. Nothing she could realistically give, anyway. "I'm good." He did it again, lips tightening into an uncomfortable smile. "I'm actually heading up in a few, too."

"Good." She swallowed hard before she smiled. This was so foreign.

His eyes lingered on her. "Goodnight."

"'Night," she said back, but it took her another several moments to make herself move forward toward an empty, unfamiliar room that guaranteed sleeplessness.

He rolled his head into his hands, massaging his temples. The simple presence of her in his house had been enough, but the reminder that she'd been here so many times before was unnerving. He couldn't remember a single one in totality – couldn't trust his mind to give him a solid, tangible memory. Everything rang of dreams: blurred images, soft skin, the warmth of her everywhere…

Sleeping just a room away from her would be impossible now. He didn't trust his mind with the temptation of pleasant dreams, or his heart with the desire to seek answers from her. And there was no way he could sleep in his bed, knowing for certain she'd once been tucked beneath the sheets with him, her warm body pressed against his.

Just the notion would haunt him relentlessly. Tonight his couch would have to bear the burden of his heavy heart and restless mind.


	6. Drifting Through Daylight

_Just wanted to say real quick... I'm sorry I haven't been as consistent about replying to reviews for stories lately. I read them all and appreciate every one. It's just that on top of school I've been writing so much - in fact, I already have half of the _next_ one of this written!__ So, with all of that it's been hard to keep up with review replies, which is a great thing because I love writing and I figure you'd probably rather get a fic alert than a review reply, anyway. But I am still trying to get to them all! I just don't know if I will, so I wanted to let you all know that I appreciate every single one. Thank you for them!_

* * *

Calleigh paused before his doorway after a predictably sleepless night, steaming cup of coffee in hand. This crossed one of the boundaries she'd very carefully set forth to herself, but it was proving to be a necessity. She had to leave in thirty minutes and he couldn't drive himself in later. More than that, she was a little worried. She hadn't heard him stir at all that morning, not even after her shower in the guest bathroom, and he usually woke much easier than this.

Sighing, she slowly pushed the door open with one hand. The sight of him buried beneath the covers had memories rushing her defenses, but she stood firm.

"Eric," she called out softly from the doorway. No response.

Biting her lip, she stepped into the room further – enough to see broad, bare shoulders peeking out from beneath his comforter – and tried again. He remained in a sedated yet restless sleep, full of strange dreams and sensations, but to her he looked blissfully at peace. Hissing his name still yielded no response so she drew closer, eyes reluctantly but unavoidably trailing over the toned muscles in his arms.

She'd once made the mistake of telling him those arms were her undoing – strong, defined arms and shoulders, with enough contours for her to make a game of running her fingers over. She hadn't divulged that much, but he'd used it against her ever since. Well, at least until now. Now, he didn't even remember the information, let alone the memory.

She averted her eyes with a newfound resolve.

"_Eric_," she called out harshly, kneeing the mattress to shake him. He practically bolted upright, startling even her. And if that hadn't been enough, the sight of him shirtless in familiar sheets within this haunting room had her stepping back.

"Jesus, Calleigh." He dropped his head, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"You wouldn't wake up," she defended, shrugging. "So much for that Vicodin not working." After a quick sip of coffee, she added, "I have to leave for the lab in thirty, so if you need to ride along…"

Eric blinked, still fighting off the haze of a narcotic-induced sleep. When his eyes could finally focus on her, he found himself taking in her striking, makeup-less face. Her skin was even lighter when bare, and with the contrast of soft light and wet, darker hair, her eyes were a brilliant sea green. She seemed a little more innocent, a little undone. He was struck by the realization that he could get used to this, and then overwhelmed by notion that he probably already _had_. He'd likely already ran his hands through her damp hair before, had looked into those eyes a little too long and made her late for work. He hoped he had, anyway, because he certainly couldn't now.

She bit her lip at his silence and turned to take a few steps toward the door. "I just made coffee if you need a wake-up," she said, glancing at him once more before retreating into the hallway.

He definitely needed a jolt to clear the remnants of sleep away, but a stimulant after a heavy depressant didn't sound like the best combination so he would have to settle for a good, old-fashioned shower. He was eager to wash away the hospital from both his skin and his mind, too, so he'd started the water within just a few minutes. After stripping down and ducking beneath the spray, he was feeling a little better. This was a familiar realm, an escape. If he closed his eyes, the water beating down on him felt so reassuring he could almost pretend it all hadn't happened. And then, when he opened his eyes to reach for his trusty soap, he found lavender instead – a smooth bar, marbled with lavender and vanilla, the feel somehow familiar in his hands.

He was utterly unprepared for the images that followed.

_Light skin. Water droplets. God, he had never been so jealous of water. One droplet was particularly worthy of envy as it trailed over her curves, tracing the side of her breast before dancing down her ribs and traveling low, low, lower still._

_Her laughter echoed in his ear. He'd trapped her against the shower wall, his hands everywhere – on her back and then at her waist, her ribs. He clearly had free rein here, and he was most certainly taking advantage of it. Her lavender and vanilla soap was being held hostage in his hands, further delaying the oh-so-unimportant real reason for their shower._

_Her skin was too tempting, her body too soft against his. He needed her, wanted her, and he was completely blinded by desire as his hand followed the path of that droplet. His thumb brushed the curve of her breast, his palm flattening against her skin as it trailed down over her abdomen._

_The memory was fading. Another flash of bare skin hit him: her leg over his, his hand near her hip, a tiny, sexy pistol tattoo inked into her skin beneath his thumb._

He exhaled heavily and set the bar back in its resting place. Well, now he was most definitely awake – and so were his memories, because that had been completely, undeniably real.

* * *

Despite every attempt to be respectful and professional, he was seeing her in a different light. It was especially tempting in comparison to her work attire of carefully put together pantsuits with matching tops and jewelry. Now, he had the knowledge that she could come utterly undone – and that she was harboring a little symbol of rebellion. He'd wondered about it for years after Speed let it slip that she had one. They just hadn't known what or where, and Eric had tried to wrestle it from her for years to no avail.

Now he knew, and he was taking a little delight in it amid all the less pleasant goings-on around him. He was actually smiling as he watched her through the glass walls, and he had to hide it quickly when she emerged from them to meet him in the lobby.

"Hey, how'd it go?" she asked hesitantly.

Sighing, he tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Well, I'm not fired."

Her lips tightened in an attempted smile, but she didn't quite make it there. The idea of him being involved in an incident that would come even remotely close to putting him in this position still troubled her. Breathing deeply, she crossed her arms over her chest.

"But since I can't exactly give my testimonial as a part of the investigation right now, they can't clear me either."

"Administrative leave?" she guessed. That was IAB's favorite thing.

"Of course. Until they find out what happened."

"How will they do that?" Though she tried not to be, she was a little interrogative herself. She needed answers, too, and her inquiry had also been at a standstill. Eric was the only reliable one who had been there, and it wasn't like he could magically conquer amnesia.

"They want phone records, bank records, the GPS from my car…" Overwhelmed, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "They want to question Sharova, too."

Biting her lip, Calleigh admitted, "I'm not sure how much luck they'll have there."

Eric caught the implication and raised a brow. "Have you talked to him?"

"When you were in the hospital." She sighed, tightening her arms around herself, and took a seat in the row of chairs behind him. "He told Natalia and H he'd only speak to me, but then he didn't give me much information."

"So what did he want?" Eric took a seat beside her, but left a whole empty seat between them for comfort.

"To know if you were okay." She shrugged, confused, and met his eyes.

Eric pursed his lips at that knowledge, unsure of how to respond. The last he knew, Sharova wanted him dead; he'd put the hit on him, at least. Maybe Sharova wanted to keep tabs on him, to know if he was aware enough to dish out information to his cop co-workers and friends. Maybe he needed to know if the Russians still needed to take him out. Or maybe, just maybe, he really wanted to know if he was okay. Maybe he _wasn't_ all bad, and Eric truly hoped that was the case because he hoped to god he hadn't gotten involved in something dirty.

"You think he's bad?" he asked, a little too much in his eyes as they pleaded with hers. She didn't have the answers, the reassurance, that he needed.

"I don't know," she said honestly, eyes searching the linoleum for answers. "He was definitely concerned… I just don't know if that's coming from a good place or not."

"I hope I get to find out."

"Me too." She was lost in thought, wondering the same things he was, and despite her preoccupation with questioning his involvement she could sense a little more to his tempered down demeanor. Something was bothering him. He was irritated and shaken in the way people often were after a particularly bad round with IAB. "You okay?" she asked, a surprising softness in her voice. She hadn't been able to disguise it.

He shook his head disbelievingly. "Stetler called my memory loss convenient."

Her lips curved downward sympathetically, brows furrowing just slightly. She didn't know how to respond. She knew that, no matter what Eric had done, he would never hide behind something like that. Her trust in him had certainly wavered as of late, but she knew that much. And she knew such an accusation would cut someone like him deeply.

"I'm sorry," she uttered, simple yet meaningful.

His eyes ineffectually sought answers in the wall across from them. "There are some things I would kill to remember," he admitted, eyes slowly but pointedly drawing over her. Against her better judgment, she met his gaze and the depth in his eyes nearly overtook her. "Some things…I hate myself for losing," he continued, eyes flickering downward to a delicate hand he was tempted to touch.

It was worse now, having some inclination of just how good she felt. He wanted to prove his memories real, wanted to feel her again.

Calleigh swallowed hard, not knowing where to go from there. His words left little room for alternate interpretations, but she couldn't deal with that now and he knew it. So she ventured where she could go, offered what she could do.

"Do you, um, need a ride back? I'm between cases. I can take lunch now." She looked his way, but didn't dare meet his eyes again.

"No." He smiled genuinely at her offer, but he was actually happy he didn't have to take it. Further burdening her wasn't in his plans, and he wasn't sure he trusted himself to be around her right now anyway. "Christina's doing the big sister thing…taking me to lunch, making sure I'm really okay…"

Calleigh smiled, though an unwelcome disappointment settled within the pit of her stomach. "That's good."

"Yeah." He glanced at the time and smoothed his sleeve back over his wrist. "She'll actually be here any minute, so I should probably get out there." She stood up with him. "See you tonight, I guess?"

"Yeah," she assured, hating how awkward she sounded. It unnerved her that he could affect her so much, especially when she'd resolved to bury it all. "Just…be careful when you get home. Keep an eye out."

"You too." His eyes danced over her once more before he turned, walking through the lobby and out the double doors, leaving her alone.

Oddly, she felt a little…distanced. In some avoidant, unhealthy way, she'd kind of taken to being close to him under the guise of protection. She could be with him, could know firsthand that he was okay, and yet it was all professional. With him recovering from brain surgery, he was allowed to need her in a less complicated way and she could keep it from crossing boundaries. She didn't mind being needed like _this_. In fact, she kind of liked it. She kind of needed it herself right now.

And as he walked away, she realized it was the only way she could let him in at the moment without anxiety blossoming in her chest.


	7. Blurred Lines and Battlefields

Sleep was proving fruitless. She'd spent much of the night tossing and turning, just like the night before, and just like she supposed she would every night here. She told herself it was this place, his home. It was impossible to sleep here, in this room, when his bedroom a stone's throw down the hall held so many nights he might never remember. Deep down, she knew that was a lie. Had she been tucked beneath her own familiar sheets in her own house, she would be just as restless. Sleep had been elusive for weeks now.

At some point during the night, she'd given in to staring at the ceiling while tracking the slightest sounds about the house: the low hum of his air conditioning unit out back, the muffled shifting of his mattress as he restlessly turned over down the hall, the whipping of wind against her windows, and then, finally, the release of slapping of raindrops against the roof.

Movement caught her attention – Eric rising from bed. She recognized his footsteps, the familiar weight of his body walking through the hall and down the stairs. From his direction and the creak of a chair, she knew he'd settled again in his den.

It took her another thirty minutes to give up on boundaries and sleep for the night to join him. She found him rustling through papers at his desk, the computer monitor behind him lit with rows and rows of e-mails. He was searching for anything, making a mess of notes and files, but he didn't seem to care.

The sight of a figure in the doorway should've made his heart jump, but instead he felt calmed, reassured of his purpose. He knew it was Calleigh without looking. Still, he wanted to, and as he took in her tired eyes and tousled hair, he smiled at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry if I woke you."

"No," she assured. And then, not wanting to disclose her insomnia to him, she added, "The rain did."

"Yeah," he agreed, though it was almost a scoff. "Me too."

She wondered if they both knew they were lying. "What are you working on?"

"I don't know," he admitted, dropping a stack of papers on the desk and shaking his head. "I'm just trying to find something. I have to have something, anything, somewhere…notes on people, places even, or phone numbers. If I was talking to Sharova there has to be some trail, right?"

She bit her lip, shrugging as she leaned against the doorway. "Maybe."

He eyed her. She seemed a little too skeptical. "What? Do you know something?"

Sighing, she glanced at the ceiling and gripped the doorframe behind her with her hands. "It's just that you didn't want anyone to know. You-" Her eyes flickered to him. "You didn't want me to know, and we're CSIs. If there was a trail, I probably would've followed it."

His eyes met hers, and for the first time he understood the magnitude of the position he'd put her in, of the deceit he'd wedged between them. He couldn't think of any reason to be so secretive around her – at least not any _good_ one – and that was probably one of the many thoughts plaguing her mind as well.

As though understanding his realization, her eyes dropped to the papers for a distraction. "Want some help?"

He was a little taken aback, but he uttered, "Sure," as he collected a stack of papers to hand her. Shrugging, he shook his head. "I don't even know what I'm looking for…just set aside phone numbers or anything that seems out of place."

"I'm not sure I'll know," she pointed out, but without his memories he was in just the same position as her.

She settled in on the couch across from him, legs uncurled off to the side. Page by page, she began to sort through the papers, but nothing stood out. They were all case notes, court appearance dates, and random work reminders. Nothing seemed relevant, and after a little while her vision began to swim.

He watched her shift into a more comfortable position, laying down on her side, and smiled a little as her eyes struggled to take in each page. Eventually, she set a page down and closed her eyes for what was supposed to be just a moment, but they didn't open again. Instead, she'd drifted off to sleep, insomnia finally taking its toll on her tired body and exhausted mind. And though it would never even occur to either of them, his calming presence certainly hadn't hindered the process.

She seemed to need the rest, so he remained silent save for the rustling of pages and the occasional clicking of computer keys. Every now and then – more often than he intended – his eyes would dance over her, taking in the delicate hand curled beneath her face, the twisted tendrils of hair falling over her eyes. Her hip was peeking out from beneath too-big pajama pants again, and he was more then tempted to run his fingertips over her skin. It seemed right, natural even, to do so, and the only things keeping him in line were the unspoken boundaries between them and the shame over not remembering what she felt like in the first place.

Two hours later, his mind was reeling with meaningless details. Most were from cases, but some names and numbers he couldn't place were sitting in a special stack on the corner of his desk. He was struggling to put it all together, and struggling to deal with the soothing yet intoxicating effects of watching Calleigh sleep across from him.

For years he'd wanted to see her like this, at peace and unable to catch him simply taking her in. He hoped that when he'd finally had that he hadn't taken it for granted, though his implied actions over the past month or so made him wonder. But though this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, it was certainly making up for it a little. She was beautiful like this – and kind of adorable. He was amazed she hadn't woken yet, and he knew that had to be a testament to just how little rest she'd been getting lately.

Not wanting to startle her awake, he crossed the little distance between them quietly. Sitting on the coffee table, a safe distance away, he took her in again and sighed softly. Fallen locks of hair would be in her eyes when she woke, so he swept them from her field of view, fingers accidentally brushing her cheek as he tucked the strands behind her ear. He meant to pull away before he woke her, meant to first put some distance between them both for her sake and for his.

But she woke even more easily than he'd imagined, and her eyes fluttered open when his fingers were still slipping through her hair. In those not quite lucid moments between sleep and wake, it didn't seem strange to her at all. It felt natural to wake to him there, to have felt his fingertips ghosting over her cheek.

Her eyes found his as she stirred and he retracted his hand from the softness of her golden strands. As the haze of sleep began to wear off, so did the familiarity of waking to him. He shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have been so close… Anxiety flickered in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing to put some distance between them. "I didn't want to startle you awake."

She only nodded softly, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she shuffled the scattered stack of papers back together. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. How long was I out for?"

He absentmindedly rifled through a few papers on his desk and ran a hand over the back of his head. "I, uh, kind of let you sleep for a while… You seemed to need it."

Finally locating a small clock on a bookcase, she noted the time and returned her gaze to him with a hesitant, thankful smile. "I guess I should actually go to bed."

"Yeah." He smiled back at her uneasily. "I was just on my way."

She hesitated at that, all too aware of the awkwardness they would find in heading to separate rooms. But things were different now. He didn't remember now, and so in some small part of her existed the naïve hope that this would be like before – when he'd played sentry on her couch after her kidnapping, or when she'd fallen asleep on his after a particularly intense poker night with the guys.

When they made it to the hallway, though, she realized things could never be that simple. They never had been. When he'd fallen into a restless sleep that night on her couch, she'd come down to find reassurance in watching him with the very same softened eyes that were currently on him from across and down the hallway. She was in her doorway, he in his – a thousand questions and answers between them.

For a few moments, he remained there, head ducked down and hands safely tucked into the pockets of his track pants. She heard him draw in a sharp breath as though to speak and her eyes focused on him expectantly. Instead, he simply lifted his gaze to her and uttered, "Goodnight, Cal."

With the vulnerable haze of sleep still clouding her mind, she was a little disappointed, but the familiarity in his words prickled goosebumps along her skin.

"Goodnight," she said before disappearing into the solitude of his guest room.

* * *

Somehow, over the past few days they'd fallen into a steady, albeit uncomfortable routine. But it was a routine nonetheless, and it became familiar a little too quickly for both of them.

She'd wake first, would shower before he woke to avoid crossing paths in the hallway, and then she'd make coffee. He'd rouse at the hiccupping of the coffee machine, would meet her downstairs with groggy eyes fresh from drugged sleep, and then he'd settle in with a cup of coffee and a stack of papers.

Today was different, though. Today, she woke to the coffee machine noisily coming alive, to the aroma of hazelnut pervading his house. And when she slowly made her way downstairs, instead of stepping into an empty silence she found Eric already busily sorting through files in his office. Unearthing information about his father and the Russians had become his sole focus, and she couldn't say she disapproved of the obsession.

She wanted to know, too, but seeing him wide awake at seven in the morning and obviously off his pain medication just days after being discharged worried her.

"You're up early," she noted, drawing his attention to her in the doorway. She hadn't gotten ready yet, and so he was again treated to the sight of her all dressed down and fresh from sleep – or lack thereof. Her eyes were a bright, light green against the black of the MDPD shirt loosely covering her torso. He had to tear his gaze away before his admiring became obvious.

"So are you." He slid some papers into a manila envelope and set it atop a pile. "Especially for a day off."

"Yeah, well," she began, running an anxious hand through her slightly messy hair. She needed to get away, and work was a convenient and practical diversion. "I actually have to go anyway. I'm slammed with paperwork for court and Frank's hounding me about it."

It was a bit of a lie, but she figured he'd passed enough of those on to her in the last few months that she almost didn't feel bad about it. Almost.

"Think you could look something up for me?" He already had a post-it note between his thumb and forefinger.

She eyed it. "What is it?"

"A phone number." He handed it to her, careful to avoid brushing her fingers. "It's been changed recently. I need to know who had it just before. When I called I got a very, very angry old woman on the other end." He cracked a smile, studying her emotionless features. And then a twinge of defensiveness hardened her.

"You can't ask me to do this," she insisted, forcefully pressing the note back onto his desk. "You're on administrative leave for a reason. You're not supposed to have access to classified information. I can't-" She stopped before emotion got the best of her. "You can't put me in the middle of this any more than I already am," she said coolly, putting some distance between them again. "IAB is investigating you, Eric. Just let them do their job."

He scoffed immediately, disbelieving eyes drifting from the note back to her conflicted eyes. "Since when the hell are you on their side?"

"Since you took the law into your own hands and ran off with a known criminal," she answered defiantly. "I'm on the side of the law, Eric. What side are you on?"

She shook her head in anger and disbelief, her steps much heavier than normal as she walked out. He watched her go, jaw set in frustration as his eyes landed on that damn post-it note again.

"I don't know," he answered to no one. He wanted to believe in himself, but it was getting harder. "I really don't know, Cal."

* * *

She'd done it. She didn't know why. Okay, maybe that was a lie. She kind of knew. She'd told herself it was out of curiosity, out of her need for answers. She'd been raised to seek the truth, with a lawyer for a father and a mind that ran on logic. But she also wouldn't be bypassing IAB's investigation to do one of her own if she hadn't had an ulterior motive.

Eric was good. She knew that deep down, but it had come in to question lately. She completely doubted him at times, and sometimes she felt guilty for it but other times she felt justified.

Right now, she didn't know how to feel. She'd done some digging. The number had stuck with her, probably because she'd been replaying the motions and words between them that morning over and over in her mind. She'd run the number and followed the trail like any good investigator.

As she walked down his hallway, tapping a note of her own between her fingers, she still didn't know what to think. She found him in his bedroom, with the blue glow of dusk streaming in from the large window. He was moving things around and organizing, which was weird in itself – clothes in piles, various items spread across his dresser…

But of even more concern was the frustration in his quick movements. He was still upset, and clearly still off his medication.

"Hey," she greeted, and his eyes couldn't help but soften when they landed on her.

"Hey." He quickly returned to his task of rummaging through his dresser, and she quickly realized he was still looking for something – anything. "Long day?"

"Yeah, kinda." She shrugged, glancing down at the paper in her hands before she extended it towards him. "I, um, threatened that phone provider with a warrant and got the information on that number."

He swallowed hard, disbelieving even as she handed him the piece of paper, but his lips curved just a little at the thought of her threatening a manager. She could be very persuasive.

"It was the personal line of a cop, Seth Harmon," she began, studying his eyes as he took it all in. "He was undercover with the Russians – deep. He'd been in with them for five years."

"Had been?" His eyes flickered to hers.

She nodded slowly, hesitantly. "No one's heard from him in weeks. He either had to lay very low for a while and will resurface soon, or…"

"Or they found out he was a cop and killed him for it," he said knowingly, watching her nod.

Either way, it was a small relief to both of them. The number had come from Eric's phone history. At least he'd been in touch with a cop among all the secretive calls and hidden meetings.

"Thanks, Calleigh," he uttered softly, meeting her eyes again. He knew she'd probably wanted to know for herself, but she'd also taken a bit of a leap of faith with him. "This is really the most I've been able to find."

She smiled sadly, arms crossed over her chest as she stood just inside the room. "You're-" she began, but a flash outside caught her eye. Panic froze her for a split second as she recognized the glint of metal on a far off rooftop. "_Get down_."

Her words were just as sharp as her actions as she dove to the floor, grabbing his arm to pull him down with her. They reached the floor, both shielding their heads and scrambling for the hallway, just as bullets rained down upon his bedroom.


	8. Take Cover

Since I can't respond to those who review anonymously, thank you to all of you! I really appreciate the feedback.

* * *

Calleigh was good at this, he had to admit. Where chaos reigned, she'd taken control and tucked them safely in the hallway, away from the onslaught of bullets. In the eerie, silent aftermath she'd dressed the wound where a bullet had grazed his bicep. And as he absentmindedly gathered important things, she'd waited, pacing, ready to move as fast as they could.

"The shooter could still be out there," he'd pointed out, concerned.

She, however, hadn't been. "No, it was a sniper. He missed his shot. He won't take another." His eyes had met hers with desperation and, after a hard swallow, she'd added, "At least not today."

And so they'd moved. Quickly. They'd broken into a run to get to her car. Palm trees and houses became a blur as she'd sped down the causeway. With her eyes flickering to the rearview and his nearly glued to the passenger side mirror, they'd watched for followers and had taken all the back roads after their exit. Before he knew it, they were in Bal Harbour and calmly pulling into her neighborhood – her _gated_ neighborhood.

She was collected as she punched in her code with focused eyes and determined fingers. And she was quiet as she led him into her house. The calm after the storm.

But under the surface something was brooding. Even without the four months he'd lost, Eric knew that something was off. He could blame it on the sudden bout of fear and the rush of adrenaline, but she dealt with that often without repercussion. Instead, her chest was rising and falling with heavy, calculated breaths, but her eyes were reddened, her neck glistening with a thin sheen of moisture.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. How's your arm?"

"Not bad." He glanced down at it, noting the blood soaking through the wrap before studying her again. "You sure you're alright?"

She nodded, putting herself together just enough to be convincing. She even threw in a sad smile, watching as he stepped into her living room.

She'd cleaned up, but it was clear that he had been everywhere, had permeated every part of her home and left a little piece of himself behind there – just like she had at his. His extra set of scuba gear was tucked in the back corner of the room, beside the large window seat overlooking her backyard. One of his jogging sweatshirts hung next to hers on the rack in the foyer. And his missing briefcase had found a home at the base of her coffee table.

It was all too much for him, especially after the ordeal they'd just been through together. She'd saved his life today, and it hadn't just been a partner protecting a partner. It hadn't been merely professional. There was more to it, more in her eyes and in her touch as she pulled him to the floor. Boundaries had been crossed yet again.

And now, seeing his things here… He wasn't sure what to make of it all, and when he turned towards her to exchange awkward pleasantries, she was gone.

"Calleigh?" He ducked into the kitchen. Empty. Returning to the hall, he took the stairs two at a time and found her bedroom as though he inherently knew the details of her home. "Cal…"

He'd been about to use her full name, but the sight of her stopped him in his tracks. She'd retreated to her room quietly, calmly, but it was clear she'd barely made it. Her hand rested over her chest, legs trembling as she lowered herself to sit on her bed. With her mouth slightly open, she was taking in what should have been deep, satisfying breaths, but they were hasty and shallow. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

She couldn't breathe.

He realized it a moment after he walked in. It wasn't desperate or dramatic, but instead a gradual, reined-in downfall. The soft wheeze that escaped her lips had him in front of her in a second.

"What happened?" he gently demanded. For once not hesitating to touch her, he tipped her chin upward to better angle her airway.

She shook her head, fingers seeking the handle to her bedside drawer. "Medicine," she managed, and his fingers took over for hers.

Eric tugged the drawer open, eyes confusedly dancing over a blue inhaler he couldn't remember her ever needing. But when he placed it in her hands, she closed her eyes tightly and, with a pained expression, shook her head again. He dug further, finally retrieving a bottle of prescription pills. As he handed it to her, he discreetly checked the label. Xanax.

His brows immediately furrowed as she took one with a sip of the bottled water that sat beside her bed. Despite her tightly coiled control, she was the last person he'd ever expect to need anti-anxiety medication. She was always okay, even when she shouldn't be, even when she really _wasn't_… She was still in control, still able to function at the top of her game. This was a complete mystery to him.

Calleigh seemed to sense the confusion in his eyes as she met them – briefly. "I'm sorry," she uttered breathlessly. She fisted the bedding into her palm as she struggled to regain her breath.

"Don't apologize." At the pain in her eyes, he rested a cautious hand on her thigh. This was uncharted territory as far as he knew, but the sight of her so far gone amid an anxiety attack had him tossing certain reservations aside. She needed to calm down, needed to let the drug work through her system.

That was evident when her hand moved atop his, surprising him. She needed the contact as solid ground, and the aching in her chest had her seeking the comfort he had so readily provided her in the past. The anxiety made the circumstances fuzzy, and the medicine was beginning to weaken her defenses.

He hesitated at first, unsure, but the sight of her hand pressed to her burning chest and the sound of her shallow breathing rendered his need to take care of her uncontrollable. A careful hand soon drifted to her back, resting safely along her spine.

"Just breathe," he urged, watching her carefully. He was completely taken aback when she leaned into him without thinking and tucked her body against his – a natural motion, an easy fit, like they'd done this before.

Eric swallowed hard and waited with her. With a soothing hand brushing over her temple and into her hair, he pulled her into his arms without question. As the medicine pumped throughout her bloodstream, he felt her body slowly begin to go lax, both heard and felt her breathing begin to even.

She suddenly realized he wasn't familiar with this anymore and her body tensed again. He didn't remember her hospital stay, or the panic attack that had blindsided her after a man held a bag over her head and took her weapon. She hadn't been able to breathe again, and it had been crippling. It had also been the first time she'd ever had a panic attack in her life – and he had been there with steady hands and reassuring words. He'd known her secret, had protected her and covered for her on more than one occasion when it became too much.

"No one knows," were the first words able to leave her lips. Even if he was lost on the rest, he'd figured as much. She closed her eyes and struggled for a deep breath, not wanting to have to admit this to him again. "Please don't say anything."

"I won't." She already knew.

"It's so stupid," she let out as she regained more of her voice.

"It's not." With his hand gliding slowly up and down her back now, he was unknowingly soothing her further and she sighed. He wasn't any surer of this yet, but the motions certainly felt a little less foreign now. She was soft beneath his touch, even more so than he'd expected. "This job gets to a lot of people, Calleigh."

"No," she interjected, finally able to take in a deep lungful of air. "It's not that – at least not exactly."

She was silent for a few more minutes. It would have been uncomfortable and unresolved save for him knowing she was waiting to build up her air intake again. He simply held her, fingers trailing up and down her spine as her head rested against his shoulder.

"You remember the fire…" she began when she could. She almost wanted to run from this – from the conversation, from the comfort of his arms... But she was in no shape to tear herself away from him. Her breathing was still ragged, her eyes still glossy. She was still afraid, and her eyes were beginning to glaze over with medicated comfort, too.

The fire was fresh in his mind, like it happened a week ago and not four months ago. He nodded. "With the body in the attic."

"I thought I was fine," she began, shaking her head, searching still for an explanation. "I _was_ fine…but I went down later."

He'd seen enough rescue missions gone sour to know. "Smoke inhalation…"

"Yeah." She swallowed and took another deep breath. "It took forever to recover. Even after they released me from the hospital, I'd get dizzy spells just walking around my house. I'd run out of breath halfway up the stairs. Even after I'd been cleared for work, I had to use the inhaler. I still do." She rolled her eyes in frustration to hide the fear, but it crept in, just as it had today under pressure.

"It started with this dream I keep having," she explained, eyes nervously searching the dark room. She didn't know why she was doing this, why she was letting herself find comfort in him again and letting her fears see the light of day. But the medicine weakened her defenses – and so did his touch. Denying the intimacy, she convinced herself it was something she would've done had they still been just partners and friends.

"I'm walking by the beach," she cautiously began. "There's a gunshot and a guy hits the ground. His daughter kneels beside him in his blood and I take off after the shooter. I want to catch him so bad for them, but I can't… I have to stop running because I can't breathe. I wake up and I still feel like I can't breathe." She stopped before the anxiety could overtake her again. "I can't do my job if my body can't handle that much. If I'm not physically capable of chasing suspects down – or running from them – then I can't protect myself…or anyone else."

Following her train of thought, Eric sighed. "You were perfect today, though. You saved my ass in there. I shouldn't have had that window open… I wasn't thinking."

"I was fine _today,_" she emphasized, "but-"

"You worry you won't be one day." He knew.

"Yeah," she softly affirmed. "I told you it was stupid… I get so worried about being able to do my job that I can't do it."

He cracked a sad smile at that. Only Calleigh would be so anxious over maintaining control that she'd lose it. But that worried him. What had happened to her over the past four months worried him, and he smoothed his hand down her arm encouragingly – friendly but not too friendly.

"I still don't think it's stupid," he admitted meaningfully. "In our line of work, if you feel you can't protect yourself or someone else, it messes with you. I felt the same way after my surgery…like I couldn't do my job and I shouldn't have been out in the field."

Calleigh pressed her lips together tightly, brows knitting as she focused across the room. "That's what you said before." It was strange to hear all over again like a bad case of déjà vu, but in a way it calmed her. He was still the same Eric, with the same reassuring words and the same soothing touch.

Sighing heavily, he drew his lips closer to her ear and closed his eyes. "What else did I do before to help you?"

Her eyes fluttered shut at his words and she turned, pressing her forehead to his chest in a moment of vulnerability that she would probably regret. "This," she breathed out, further calmed when he wrapped his arm around her again – this time more assuredly.


	9. An Ocean of Unknown

**Note: **_Sorry for the delay on this. It was two parts lack of time and one part major writer's block. Hopefully I'm unstuck on it now, though. Thanks for your patience. I really hope you enjoy it._

* * *

The next morning, everything was too bright – the sun streaming in through translucent curtains, the subsequent white light reflecting off her cream-colored bedroom. She loved mornings, but they were a little too much after the drowsy, medicated calm that Xanax provided in the dark of night.

She hated taking it. It made her feel weak. She'd used it a grand total of three times, and she'd only gone in the first place because Eric had convinced her. He'd played the right cards in suggesting it would help her on the job, help her catch her breath more quickly. She'd lied a little to the doctor. She'd told him it had only been happening since the fire, but really it all came down to her crippling fear of not being able to save someone, of not being strong enough or able enough. Like with Hagen, her kidnapping, William Campbell, countless bystanders… If those events had planted the fear, then the sudden onset of breathing difficulties had merely been water to thirsty roots. Proof, almost – an actual, physical flaw that held her back.

It was a tangible, rational reason to what she'd previously been able to see as irrational. And it scared her.

But that was something she hadn't admitted to anyone, maybe not even truly to herself.

Stretching beneath the sheets, she tested her body. That heavy, boneless feeling was gone now, leaving her only with fading remnants of the medication. At the remembrance of that feeling, the weakening of her defenses came back to her full force. Eric. He'd held her and she'd let him. He'd slipped past her walls and she'd let him. It had been comforting, familiar.

But now it sent a chill of panic coursing through her system. Eric wasn't _Eric_ anymore. He wasn't the one she'd trusted with her panic and anxiety all those months ago. He wasn't the Eric with all those memories and feelings of them together. And even if he was technically that person, she'd realized she might have misplaced her trust in him the day he ran off with his criminal of a father.

Last night had been a mistake – one she would likely have to face very soon. Biting the bullet, she pushed the covers down and set her feet on the floor. The moment she entered the hallway, she was all too aware of the telltale signs of productivity in her kitchen – a steaming coffee pot, the hiss of a faucet, and the clinging of pots and pans. Someone had clearly made himself at home.

When she'd made her way downstairs, she realized it was worse than she imagined. In addition to fresh coffee, there was French toast, fresh strawberries from her fridge, and scrambled eggs. Her unusually groggy eyes surveyed the spread with a hint of disdain, and her brows furrowed as Eric turned towards her.

"Hey." He offered a cautious smile. "How are you doing?"

"Fine."

She blinked a little, and he swallowed hard. He'd expected this. Even if he didn't know her in the way he'd apparently known her sometime within the past few months, he'd experienced enough with her to know she retreated the moment she approached anything deep with anyone. Still, it was a little disappointing to get so close, to actually touch her – and to know it wouldn't happen again.

"What's all this?"

"Breakfast."

"Why?" She didn't like the idea of being taken care of, especially because she knew Eric – and she knew this all had a direct correlation to the mess of a person she'd been last night.

Luckily, he had a back-up.

"Because you kind of saved my ass yesterday, if I remember correctly…"

She narrowed her eyes at him as he placed a plateful before her. "You do," she finally affirmed, grateful for the shift in meaning of this breakfast, even if it was potentially a cover-up. She could deal with a thank-you far better than pity.

Eric remained standing across the island from her while she took a seat, though he at least began to pile food on a plate of his own. He ate distractedly, though, and soon conversation dissolved into the unavoidable realm of yesterday's events.

"Do you think Sharova sent that sniper?" Eric asked her.

"I don't know…" In all the confusion, she really hadn't considered it. It was the Russians, of course, but she hadn't yet questioned who exactly had ordered the hit this time. More importantly, who had told them Eric was out of the hospital? Or had they really staked it out like Sharova had suggested? "He's still in holding for questioning, so he'd either need to have developed a way of talking to someone on the outside or there's a leak at MDPD."

"Which is unlikely," Eric deduced as he took another bite of French toast.

"They could've just waited, staked the place out." Like Sharova had told her they would, she reminded herself. He'd tipped her off so far about everything – or maybe that was what he wanted her to think.

"Let's hope they don't do that here." He met her eyes from across the counter. "I meant it when I said I didn't want you getting hurt because of me. I already put you in danger by letting you stay at my place."

Calleigh bit her lip, breaking his gaze all too quickly. "Other than yesterday, I don't think they know about me."

"How's that?" Eric questioned. "I was involved with them. Sharova had to have known about you."

"Just something Sharova said." She rolled her eyes a little at herself, knowing she shouldn't believe it, but deep down she knew Sharova was probably right. Even if Eric had become too involved with his father and the Russians, he never would've put her at risk. He wouldn't have mentioned her.

"Sharova told me you were…protective," she admitted hesitantly. "You didn't want them, or even him, to know. He didn't put two and two together until at the scene that day."

"But he obviously knew," Eric pointed out. "And you trust him?"

"No," Calleigh admitted, raising her brows insistently. "I'd be the last one to trust him, but he warned me about the Russians, Eric. He told me they'd stake your place out. He told me to keep you in the hospital as long as possible. And he told me not to go digging. Believe me, I'm not writing off his involvement or everything he's done, but maybe you should talk to him."

Eric's lips tightened defensively, as did his shoulders. "I don't want anything to do with him. I don't trust a word he says."

She watched him carefully, wondering when their roles had reversed. She was frustrated at the utter turnaround until she remembered once again that this was the Eric from four months ago. He despised and distrusted Sharova even more than she did right now. It was personal for him – very, _very_ personal.

Suddenly, she was struck by the realization that Eric had never jumped into anything with his biological father. Sharova had had to prove himself – not just once with the deportation matter, but over and over, Calleigh imagined. Eric's distrust ran deep once it began, and Sharova would've needed to prove his worth before Eric did him any favors. Maybe Eric had been onto something with Sharova… Or maybe Sharova had just manipulated him like a pawn. Or, the far worse possibility that still lingered in everyone's mind: maybe Eric had crossed a line to return a favor – one he couldn't come back from.

"I have to get ready for work," she said, purposefully putting the brakes on that train of thought. "Let me know if you need anything today."

"I will."

"Thanks for breakfast." She smiled a little, but there was only a flicker of the emotion from last night in her eyes. He was here with her again, but for him it was the first time – and she didn't know if she could trust him this time around.

* * *

"Eric?"

Met with silence, Calleigh continued through the seemingly empty house. They hadn't brought his car over yet – not that he was supposed to drive while heavily medicated, anyway – so he was likely out with his sisters, Horatio, or IAB.

Relaxing a little at the solitude, she toed her heels off and slipped her blazer from her shoulders, leaving her in a lace-trimmed tank top and slacks. She twisted her hair into a casual bun as she started up the stairs, seeking the comfort of her large tub filled with warm water and bubbles.

The case today had been an unusual open-and-shut one, but that didn't mean the day had been easy. A suspect had suddenly and forcefully pushed her aside, sending her into the sharp corner of a table, and Eric's guilt – or possible lack thereof – had occupied her thoughts all day. When all was said and done, she'd been left with a tennis ball size bruise on her side and a reeling heart.

Alone, she allowed her thoughts to wander, allowed her stride to become a bit pained and sluggish. Naturally, the sight of Eric crossing her hallway then surprised her. He froze just as quickly as she did, caught in an even more precarious position with comfortable basketball shorts hanging low on his hips and the glaring absence of a shirt.

"Hey. I - Sorry, I didn't think you were here," she said as though she hadn't stumbled at all. It was probably the first time he'd ever seen her the least bit flustered – and yet she was somehow graceful still.

"It's okay, I didn't think you'd be home this early." He smiled with her in matching misassumption. "I took some meds for my head after I got in and slept it off… I was just going to grab a shower."

"Well, carry on," she said playfully. In attempting to keep her eyes away from his toned chest, her eyes had become locked with his. She was quickly finding it every bit as dangerous. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks." As she walked past him, he took advantage of the rare opportunity to study the curves her body-hugging tank revealed. With her hair quickly pulled back and half her work clothes discarded, she almost looked relaxed. Once again, he wondered how many of these moments he'd been privy to in the recent past, how many times he'd seen her unwound and perfectly comfortable around him.

Whatever the case, it was certainly the past now. She had her guard up and he was a mess. He had an ocean of memories lost at sea, haunting bits and pieces that only occasionally challenged the belief that _they_ had never happened. It just didn't seem possible. Right when they'd supposedly crossed that line, he'd been launched back four months into a state of seemingly never-ending tension.

Forcing his eyes away from her retreating frame, he withdrew into the bathroom, quickly reminded of the dilemma he'd been turning over in his mind just before their encounter in the hallway. He needed to go through his post-op routine of rinsing the incision site in the shower and applying the prescription cream, yet the entire area where the bullet had grazed his arm was sore. He couldn't extend his arm without stretching the healing skin, and he certainly couldn't lift and bend it behind his head to take care of the necessary task at hand.

For a moment, he considered hoping the shower alone did its job. He could keep a safe distance from her and avoid any awkwardness that close proximity might bring on. He also didn't want to ask her for help, not after everything she'd done and how helpless he'd been feeling just after surgery. Between physical limitations and memory loss, he was practically useless both with the investigation and with work.

But horror stories of post-op infections and the thought of Calleigh rolling her eyes at how he could've prevented something like that by asking for help had him changing his mind rather quickly. He managed to catch her just before she was about to disappear into her room.

"Calleigh?"

She paused, resting a hand on the doorframe.

"Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure." She smiled softly, turning towards him. "What's up?"

"I hate to bother you for more help, but uh…" He looked down for a moment before voicing the words, the thought of her having to touch him suddenly entering his mind. Collecting himself, he lifted his eyes back to hers – and watch her own gaze dart away from the contours of his shoulders. "I don't exactly have the use of both arms now to take care of all this," he said, motioning to the base of his skull with his good arm. "Mind helping me redress it?"

"No, not at all. I'm sorry, I should've been asking if you needed help after last night." Amid everything else, she'd almost forgotten he'd been grazed by that bullet.

"You've done more than enough," he assured. "Really, you didn't need to do any of this."

She smiled a little, letting him know with silent understanding that it was nothing compared to his life.

"How's your arm doing?" she asked as he led her to the bathroom.

"Not bad, but it definitely sliced the skin, so it hurts to move it right now. You know how it is."

She did, unfortunately. She'd been grazed a time or two in all her years of police work, and she had a fading scar on her thigh to prove it.

"You should let me take a look at that, too," she told him, noting the heavy sigh that came from him in response. He already had all the cleaning supplies laid out, and the sight of antibiotic rinse reminded her that there was no easy way to wash the incision site properly – except for in the shower. She could stand on the ledge to account for the height difference and he wouldn't have to lean back at awkward angles. It would be quick and simple that way…but it was a shower. It required water and less clothing.

She bit her lip. "So…what's the easiest way to do this?"

He scoffed inaudibly at the question. Easiest for them to handle or easiest to actually complete? Those were far different questions with far different answers.

Attempting to shake all semblance of discomfort away, he answered with, "I could just get under the shower…as-is, I mean," he clarified. "With shorts on."

"Okay. Yeah." She tried not to look relieved, but she was – because old habits die hard, and the sight of him half-clothed was already triggering far too many memories and reflexes.

He turned the shower on, all familiarity lost for her when he climbed in clothed and she stepped up onto the ledge in her dress pants and top. They could do this. They could be professional. After all, they were still technically co-workers. They were also still friends, and friends did this kind of thing for each other…albeit with much less sexual tension and baggage.

The water pounded down, glossing his skin, and she carefully guided his head under the stream of water. The incision looked fine, but she gently rubbed the antibiotic wash over the healing site, her fingers unavoidably brushing sensitive skin and pressing against taut muscles in his neck and shoulders.

Despite the warm water, he felt a chill dash down his spine at the feel of her hands on him. Her touch surprised him; it was soft and gentle, yet firm enough to caress and soothe, distinct enough to matter. Something about it – about her – had his mind and heart suddenly racing. The familiarity of a memory was just beyond grasp. He'd had flashes of it before, but as she finished up and placed a palm against his shoulder it finally hit him.

_Her palm pressed into his shoulder as she tugged him close, arm tucked beneath his. Her laughter echoed in his ear. He'd trapped her against the shower wall, his hands everywhere – on her back and then at her waist, her ribs._

_Another flash of bare skin hit him: her leg over his, his hand near her hip, a tiny, sexy pistol tattoo inked into her skin beneath his thumb._

_He grinned, lowering his lips to the tempting skin of her neck as she completely gave in, tiling her head to the side for better access. He was teasing her, placing delicate kiss after delicate kiss to her neck while letting his mouth brush against her skin only every so often to collect water droplets._

_At the whisper of his name he pulled back, his fingers dancing across the sensitive skin beneath her chin. He saw the corner of her smile, but just before he could meet her eyes the memory slipped away._

He'd wanted to see her face, her eyes…to be absolutely sure. Frustrated, he blinked as reality closed in on him once again – Calleigh standing on the ledge beside him, her hand slowly leaving his skin.

"All good?" she asked, swallowing hard. She'd been too close. She needed to get away.

"Yeah…" He shook his head in confusion, trying to rid himself of the images for his own sanity. He watched her step down from the ledge carefully, having to fight for balance at the weight of her already too-long pants that were now also drenched to further weigh her down.

"These are soaked now," she told him, attempting to wring some of the water out. It was no use, though. "I don't know if I can even walk like this."

"You can take them off," he suggested before he could bite his tongue. "I'll close the shower curtain and promise not to look. Scout's honor."

She tilted her head in admonishment and watched him smile. Here they were again, back to the playful banter, the weary back-and-forth between friends and so much more. For him, no time had passed at all. For him, they'd never moved from this point.

He must have been thinking the same, because the next words that fell from his lips acknowledged the so-called elephant in the room, the wide, gaping hole that neither of them had brought up.

"I mean, technically I've seen it all before anyways, right?" he said dryly, and though it was meant to be a light-hearted comment – as light as it could be – even his eyes were filled with desperation as they met hers.

"Right," she agreed softly, swallowing hard. And then her eyes lifted back to his with a sad smile etched across her features. "But you don't remember it…"

With that, she slowly backed out of the room, never breaking their gaze until she'd shut the door.


	10. Remembering Sunday

_Well this is overdue... I'm so sorry for the wait. I've had a pretty bad case of writer's block all summer, and that combined with this inability I now have to sit at my computer for any amount of time at all has made it pretty hard to get any writing done. I finally made a breakthrough and finished this chapter, though. I'll definitely keep trying to write more. I hope you're all still interested and enjoy the chapter. Things are starting to move along..._

* * *

Eric should've been satisfied – pleased, even. At his one-week post-op appointment, his doctor had quickly and easily run through all of the required checks. He had no lasting remnants of the injury or the surgery. The incision was healing quickly. His vision was fine this time around.

But instead of leaving the hospital assuredly, he was instead making his way through the emergency trauma wing in search of a certain room. _138_. It was open, so he stepped into the doorway and waited a moment until Alexx's eyes lifted from the paperwork on her desk. She smiled knowingly almost as though she'd been expecting to find him there.

"Eric." She motioned for him to sit down. "How are you doing?"

"Not bad." Shrugging, he smiled, albeit not with the same warmth she was used to. "How about you?"

"Swamped with discharge paperwork," she said, looking down pointedly, "but pretty good otherwise. How was your post-op appointment?"

"It went really well," he told her halfheartedly. "No sign of infection, I passed all the vision tests, the headaches are bearable…"

Alexx smiled cautiously. "And your memory?"

He paused, pushing his lips together and focusing on the wall beside her. "That's why I came to see you. Dr. Callahan says it's normal to never recover them…"

Alexx nodded along with his words, though her eyes held much more sympathy than his own doctor's had. She knew how much he had to be hurting. Not only was a CSI's memory invaluable, but currently Eric's lack of it was preventing him from clearing his name – and he wasn't the kind of person who could deal with a tarnished reputation.

"He's right," she admitted regretfully. "When some people undergo a trauma, as that part of the brain heals they begin to remember what they'd lost. But for most people, even once they're fully healed they never regain those memories. It's very common. You just…try to move on from what you lost," she offered delicately, not yet knowing what she was dealing with. "Create new memories."

Eric exhaled impatiently, still battling the decision to bring to life what felt like a dream. It was Calleigh, he was sure. And these felt different than the silly dreams he'd had of her in the past. They felt real.

"Actually, I get these…flashes," he admitted, shaking his head in confusion. "At first I thought they were dreams, but I'm pretty sure they're real. They're strong, and most of the time it's like something triggers it."

Alexx's brows furrowed as she studied him. "How detailed?"

"Very." Eric swallowed hard, any awkwardness colored over by his desperation to know what was going on. "But they're short and scattered."

"Well, you know our most powerful and meaningful memories can be triggered by sensory information – scents, sights, touching an object or a person… It's just different now because you don't know what memory you're attaching it to. You don't have the whole memory."

Eric nodded along, but then shrugged. "So what do I do? Is there any way to help remember the complete memories?"

"I don't know," Alexx admitted. "Off the record here, not as a doctor…when something triggers these flashes, don't run from it. Pay attention to the details, and ask whoever is involved for more information. Maybe if you dive headlong into the memory instead of tiptoeing around it, more will come to you and you can understand what happened."

He smiled sadly. If only that ordeal was the least of his problems… Diving headlong into the mess of a relationship between he and Calleigh seemed utterly impossible, as was asking her questions about flashes of intimate memories he wasn't sure he could trust.

But the conversation had at least given him a shred of hope. It was only logical that such memories would come back to him at the sight of her things in his home, at the sight of _her_ in his home. His most powerful and meaningful memories apparently involved Calleigh…

"So you definitely think they're real?"

"You don't?" She raised a brow.

Sighing, Eric thought about it for a moment, remembering the feel of her skin beneath his, the ease in her smile… "Some of it is just hard to believe."

Suddenly, she understood just how important these particular memories were.

Alexx had known. She knew the moment she'd seen the raw worry in Calleigh's eyes at the hospital, and she'd confirmed it when Calleigh's desperation over his memory loss turned into a regretful acceptance of the circumstances. Not only had he lost his grasp on knowing what he'd done, but he'd also lost an entire romantic relationship as well – a very important one, by the looks of it.

And now he was being haunted by remnants of memories too significant to be lost.

In return, she uttered, "Some of it must be hard to forget."

* * *

It was strange how, even after everything had changed, the sound of him coming home was still familiar. He had a key to her place again, yet it was for completely different reasons. Protection. Care. Reassurance that he was okay…

She continued to aimlessly rotate the cup of tea along the surface of her kitchen table, all too aware of his presence behind her.

"Hey." He noted her relaxed clothing and simple ponytail, but her cloudy eyes took precedence. She seemed deep in thought – not upset, yet not content either. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just thinking."

Somehow, he knew just how to see through her these days, and for once she seemed mostly honest when she claimed she was fine. He pulled up a chair adjacent to her, fully knowing she was studying him with apprehension. She didn't particularly want to make this a habit…this sitting down and talking thing.

But that didn't explain why she asked, "How was your appointment?"

"Fine." He shrugged, attempting to brush it aside discreetly. "Everything's going well. No complications."

"Don't sound so thrilled," she said, noting his defeated tone and distracted eyes.

"I am." He smiled in an attempt to convince her, the gesture even entering his eyes for just a moment at her concern. "You sure you're okay, though?" It wasn't often he discovered Calleigh idling aimlessly.

"Yeah, but you're not…" She was either behind honest or didn't want to talk about it, so either way he conceded, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

"It's just this whole memory thing." He rested his forearms on the table, now fixed in his own state of contemplation. "I just wish I could fill in all the blanks – and there are a _lot_ of blanks."

Calleigh smiled sympathetically, her guard still in place. "It must be hard to not know what happened…to not be able to defend yourself."

It wasn't really what he'd even been focusing on, but he nodded softly. Even if he couldn't share the details with her, he could at least share the frustration.

"Did your doctor say anything about the memory loss?" she asked gently.

"Same old story…some people regain the time they lost, some people don't." Eric shrugged, shaking his head. "My scans look really good and everything appears to be healing quickly, but I just…want to remember everything, and I can't."

Her hand instinctively moved to cover his, her palm warm from hugging the mug of tea. Fingers curving around his hand, she offered him the smallest comfort, and yet it seemed monumental. Her hand was purposely touching his, her eyes taking in the way her hand wrapped around his, the lights and darks of their skin contrasting.

"I can't imagine losing four months of my life," she admitted in a voice so soft he'd only remembered her using it once before: when he was in the hospital. "I'm sorry, Eric… I wish I could help more."

She meant that in a lot of ways, he knew…wished she could fill in the blanks without putting words or ideas into his head, wished she could wholeheartedly trust him with her version of what had happened that day, wished she could somehow overcome the insurmountable pain and tell him what had happened between them, what had developed and come undone over the past several months. She couldn't do any of that, but as her skin touched his a sense of it all came back to him.

He'd felt it in the hospital before, when her touch and her voice drew forth emotions he couldn't explain, feelings that seemed far too strong for where he thought their relationship had left off. And soon his mind was reeling with inexplicable images, touches, and words again.

_A kitchen still surrounded them, but this time it was his. She'd apparently pulled him close because her back was to the counter, her hands tugging his so his body remained within inches of hers. He could feel the warmth radiating from her, could feel her fingers dancing with his._

"_I just don't know if I can trust him," fell from his lips with a hint of guilt that battled the comfort she was providing._

"_Why do you seem so guilty about that?" she questioned softly, thumb smoothing over the back of his. "You don't have to trust him. You don't have any reason to."_

"_He's family," Eric muttered disbelievingly. "He risked a lot showing up like that to prove my citizenship…"_

"_He's only family by blood. He didn't stick around, so don't feel guilty for not trusting him… He has to earn it."_

_He breathed in deeply, her reassurance washing over him as the hint of a mischievous smile crossed his features. "Is that how I got yours?"_

_Letting out a quiet laugh, she looked off to the side and grinned. Her fingers roamed over his hands until she'd tucked his palms against hers, using their hands as leverage to push herself closer to his height._

"_Maybe…" she whispered teasingly against his lips before pressing her mouth to his. "But I knew I could trust you."_

_Eric returned the favor, leaning into her body as he lowered his lips to hers. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers gradually moving to cup the back of his head. She grazed her hand over his short hair soothingly, providing a sense of ease and comfort he hadn't anticipated. It overwhelmed him completely – the feel of her against him, of his lips against her own, the notion that intimate moments like this between them might have been frequent and casual, though still treasured._

"_You'll figure Sharova out," she assured, and for once he didn't feel completely on edge about his biological father. She had this way of calming his nerves – or sometimes his temper – that he couldn't quite explain. He could only rest his forehead against hers, sigh contentedly, and stare back into her green eyes._

Swallowing hard, Eric met her eyes, for a moment mixing past with present, or dream with reality. Calleigh held his gaze for just a moment, until a simple touch had shifted from comfort to familiarity, from friendship to much more.

She slowly let her fingertips slip from his skin, wondering how they'd made it to that brink so easily again. Each time she pulled back and made a conscious effort to remain at a distance, somehow she was innocently drawn back again only to find herself quickly in too deep. Letting out an almost inaudible, controlled breath of air, she shifted in her chair and grasped the mug tightly in her hands.

"I'm going to go relax a bit before bed," she told him as she stood, walked the length of the kitchen, and placed her mug in the dishwasher. "I think there are leftovers in the fridge still if you're hungry. Just help yourself to anything here."

"I will. Thanks." He watched her every move, seeing the tension in her walk as she stepped through the doorway. "Calleigh?"

She stopped, fingers landing on the doorframe as she turned back to him. He almost hadn't been aware of her name leaving his lips, and now that she was facing him, whatever urge had come over him was quickly squelched by the intensity of her green eyes on him.

But he had to know. And she deserved to know whatever it was he remembered, or didn't remember… The details were fuzzy, but the memory was vivid. He could recall the feelings and the flashes so easily.

"Do you have a tattoo of a gun?"

The confusion – and worry – in her eyes was immediate. All this time she thought she'd been helping out an Eric who remembered none of their relationship – making conversation, brushing by him in the hall, living within the same walls as him. In a way, it had made their current situation easier. She could carry on as if it hadn't happened, could avoid the pain and the awkwardness of shared intimate memories.

The thought that he might have some recollection of any of it changed everything.

"How do you know that?" she asked, her brows furrowing as her eyes searched his for answers. "Do you remember?"

Eric simply stared back at her, overwhelmed by the confirmation that every flash and feeling had undeniably been a memory – a reality.


End file.
